Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good, With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bear them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon St. Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay, To England to carry; O when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry? And at the banquet in his drunkenness, Slew his dear friend, my kind and truest heart: A gentle warning (friends) thus may you see, What'tis to keep a drunkard company. LOVE BANISHED HEAVEN. SONNET. LOVE banish'd heaven, in earth was held in scorn, Wand'ring abroad in need and beggary; And wanting friends, though of a god. dess born, Yet crav'd the alms of such as passed by: I, like a man devout and charitable, Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wand'ring guest, With sighs and tears still furnishing his table, With what might make the miserable blest; But this ungrateful, for my good desert, Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gave consent to steal away my heart, And set my breast his lodging on a fire. Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold, No marvel then though charity grow cold. SONNET. LOVE in a humor play'd the prodigal, And bade my senses to a solemn feast; Yet more to grace the company withal, Invites my heart to be the chiefest guest: No other drink would serve this glut ton's turn But precious tears distilling from mine eyne, Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, Quaffing carouses in this costly wine; Where, in his cups o'ercome with foul excess, Straightways he plays a swaggering ruffian's part, SONNET. IF he, from heaven that filch'd that living fire, Condemn'd by Jove to endless torment be, I greatly marvel how you still go free, That far beyond Prometheus did aspire: The fire he stole, although of heavenly kind, Which from above he craftily did take, Of lifeless clods, us living men to make, He did bestow in temper of the mind: But you broke into heav'n's immortal store, [WILLIAM DRUMMOND was born at the manor-house of Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, on December 13, 1585, and died there December 4, 1649. His chief poetical works are: Teares on the Death of Maliades (Prince Henry), 1613; Poems, 1616; Forth Feasting, a panegyricke to the King's most excellent Majestie, 1617; Flowers of Sion, 1623; The Entertainment of the high and mighty monarch Charles, 1633; The Exequies of the Honourable Sir Anthony Alexander, Knight, 1638. Besides these he wrote innumerable political pamphlets, etc., and a considerable historical work. More important are his well-known Conversations with Ben Jonson, of which an authentic copy was discovered by Mr. David Laing and printed by him in 1832. A unique copy of the Poems, printed on one side of the paper only, and containing Drummond's autograph corrections, is in the Bodleian Library. It varies most curiously from the later editions.] [BORN 1573, in London; his mother being a descendant of Sir Thomas More. He studied both at Oxford and Cambridge, and also at Lincoln's Inn; travelled in Italy and Spain, "and returned perfect in their languages." He was afterwards in the service of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere and others, and in 1610 was persuaded by James I. " to enter into sacred orders." In 1621 the king made him Dean of St. Paul's, and he held other benefices. He died in 1631. Izaak Walton's celebrated Life was prefixed to his Eighty Sermons, fol., 1640; and this Life asserts that "most of his poems were written before the twentieth year of his age.' The Poems were collected and first published posthumously in 1633; but Harl. MS. 5110 (British Museum), is entitled, "Jhon Dunne, his Satyres anno domini 1593."] SONG. SWEETEST love, I do not go For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best Yesternight the Sun went hence, O, how feeble is man's power, |