DRAYTON

Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour, Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way Where the French gen’ral lay With all his power: Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending; Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, ’Though they to one be ten, Be not amazèd. Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd.’ ‘And for myself,’ quoth he, ‘This my full rest shall be: England ne’er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me; Victor I will remain Or on this earth lie slain; Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me.’ ‘Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.’ The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen; Excester had the rear, A braver man not there: O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which did the single aim To our hid forces! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to o’erwhelm it, And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruisèd his helmet. Glo’ster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, 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, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare 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? Michael Drayton.

You brave heroic minds Worthy your country’s name, That honour still pursue; Go and subdue! Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home with shame. Britons, you stay too long: Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretch’d sail With vows as strong As the winds that blow you. Your course securely steer West and by south forth keep, Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals When Æolus scowls You need not fear, So absolute the deep. And cheerfully at sea Success you shall entice To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold Virginia Earth’s only paradise. Where nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish, And the fruitfull’st soil Without your toil Three harvests more, All greater than your wish. And the ambitious vine Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine And useful sassafras. To whom the golden age Still nature’s laws doth give, Nor other cares attend But them to defend From winter’s rage, That long there doth not live. When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land Above the seas that flows The clear wind throws Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand. In kenning of the shore (Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then! Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven. And in regions far, Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our north. And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere,— Apollo’s sacred tree,— You it may see A poet’s brows To crown that may sing there. Thy voyages attend Industrious Hackluit Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after times thy wit. Michael Drayton.