You may imagine him upon Blackheath; Quite from himself to God. But now behold, 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; Who envies none whom chance doth raise, How deepest wounds are given with praise, Who God doth late and early pray 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; Your faith hath found 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, True valour doth her own renown commend 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, Fonson. 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 plains, to the woods, To the rocks, to the floods, They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow! Brave Diocles is dead, And all his soldiers fled; That many a life hath cost. Hey, hey! VI IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY MORTALITY, behold and fear! Who now want strength to stir their hands. With the richest, royall'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in, 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 |