Of Archery they had the very perfect craft,

With Broad-arrow, or But, or Prick, or Roving Shaft:
At Markes full fortie score they us'd to Prick and Rove,
Yet higher then the breast for Compasse never strove,
Yet at the farthest marke a foot could hardly win:
At Long-buts, short and Hoyles each one could cleave the pin.
Their Arrows finely pair'd for Timber and for Feather,
With Birch and Brazill peec'd to flie in any weather;
And shot they with the round, the square, or forked Pyle,
The loose gave such a twang as might be heard a myle.
And of these Archers brave there was not any one
But he could kill a Deere his swiftest speed upon;
Which they did boyle and rost in many a mightie wood,
Sharpe hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly food.
Then taking them to rest, his merry men and hee
Slept many a Summers night under the Greenewood tree,
From wealthy Abbotts chests and Churles abundant store
What often times he tooke he shar'd amongst the poore:
No lordly Bishop came in lusty Robins way,

To him before he went but for his Passe must lay:
The Widdow in distresse he graciously reliev'd
And remedied the wrongs of many a Virgin griev'd.
He from the husbands bed no married woman wan
But to his Mistris deare, his loved Marian,
Was ever constant knowne, which wheresoere shee came
Was soveraigne of the Woods, chiefe Lady of the Game.
Her Clothes tuck'd to the knee, and daintie braided haire,
With Bow and Quiver arm'd shee wandred here and there
Amongst the Forrests wild. Diana never knew
Such pleasures nor such Harts as Mariana slew.

From "The Battaile of Agincourt," &c., 1627.

Nimphidia the Court of Fayrie.

LDE Chaucer doth of Topas tell,
Mad Rablais of Pantagruell,

A latter third of Dowsabell,

With such poore trifles playing: Others the like have laboured at, Some of this thing and some of that And many of they know not what, But that they must be saying.

Another sort there bee, that will
Be talking of the Fayries still,
Nor never can they have their fill,

As they were wedded to them:

No Tales of them their thirst can slake,

So much delight therein they take

And some strange thing they faine would make,
Knew they the way to doe them.

Then since no Muse hath bin so bold,

Or of the later or the ould,

Those Elvish secrets to unfold

Which lye from others reeding, My active Muse to light shall bring The court of that proud Fayry King And tell there of the Revelling :

Jove prosper my proceeding.

And thou, Nimphidia, gentle Fay,
Which meeting me upon the way
These secrets didst to me bewray

Which now I am in telling:
My pretty light fantastick mayde,
I here invoke thee to my ayde
That I may speake what thou hast sayd
In numbers smoothly swelling.

This Pallace standeth in the Ayre,
By Nigromancie placed there,
That it no Tempest needs to feare
Which way so ere it blow it;

And somewhat Southward tow'rd the Noone,
Whence lyes a way up to the Moone
And thence the Fayrie can as soone
Passe to the earth below it.

The Walls of Spiders legs are made,
Well mortized and finely layd;
He was the master of his Trade
It curiously that builded:
The Windowes of the eyes of Cats,
And for the Roofe, instead of Slats,
Is cover'd with the skinns of Batts

With Mooneshine that are guilded.

Hence Oberon him sport to make
(Their rest when weary Mortals take
And none but onely Fayries wake)
Descendeth for his pleasure:
And Mab his meerry Queene by night
Bestrids young Folks that lye upright
(In elder times the Mare that hight)
Which plagues them out of measure.

Hence Shaddowes, seeming idle shapes
Of little frisking Elves and Apes,
To Earth do make their wanton skapes
As hope of pastime hasts them:

Which maydes think on the Hearth they see,
When Fyers well nere consumed be,
Their daunsing Hayes by two and three
Just as their Fancy casts them.

These make our Girles their sluttery rue
By pinching them both blacke and blew,
And put a penny in their shue

The house for cleanely sweeping:
And in their courses make that Round
In Meadowes and in Marshes found,
Of them so call'd the Fayrie ground,
Of which they have the keeping.

These when a Childe haps to be gott
Which after prooves an Ideott,
When Folke perceive it thriveth not,
The fault therein to smother,
Some silly Doting brainelesse Calfe
That understands things by the halfe
Say that the Fayrie left this Aulfe
And tooke away the other.

But listen and I shall you tell
A chance in Fayrie that befell,

Which certainely may please some well,

In Love and Armes delighting;

Of Oberon that jealous grewe

Of one of his own Fayrie crue

Too well (he fear'd) his Queene that knew, His love but ill requiting.

Pigwiggen was this Fayrie knight,
One wondrous gratious in the sight
Of faire Queene Mab, which day and night
He amorously observed;

Which made King Oberon suspect
His Service took too good effect,
His saucinesse and often checkt

And could have wisht him starved.