You may imagine him upon Blackheath; Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride, Quite from himself to God. But now behold, How London doth pour out her citizens! Shakespeare. II LORD OF HIMSELF How happy is he born or taught And simple truth his highest skill; Whose passions not his masters are; Who hath his ear from rumours freed; Nor ruin make oppressors great; Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend This man is free from servile bands Wotton. III TRUE BALM HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound; A gentler and more agile hand to tend And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind, Which in the taking if you misapply Your covetous hand, Happy in that fair honour it hath gained, Must now be reined. True valour doth her own renown commend Think but how dear you bought This same which you have caught Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth 'Tis wisdom, and that high, For men to use their fortune reverently, IV HONOUR IN BUD It is not growing like a tree Is fairer far in May: Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light. Jonson. V THE JOY OF BATTLE ARM, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in; Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win. Behold from yonder hill the foe appears; Bows, bills, glaives, arrows, shields, and spears! Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring; Hark, the drums! Dub, dub! They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes: That darken all the sky! Hark how the trumpets sound! Hark how the hills rebound Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara! Hark how the horses charge! in, boys! boys, in! O how they die! Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder! They fly they fly! Eumenes has the chase, To the rocks, to the floods, They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow! Brave Diocles is dead, Hey, hey! VI IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY MORTALITY, behold and fear! Since the first man died for sin. Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died.' Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state, Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Beaumont. VII GOING A-MAYING GET up, get up for shame! The blooming morn |