You may imagine him upon Blackheath;
Where that his lords desire him to have borne
His bruised helmet and his bended sword
Before him through the city: he forbids it,
Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride,
Giving full trophy, signal and ostent,

Quite from himself to God. But now behold,
In the quick forge and working-house of thought,
How London doth pour out her citizens!
The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,
Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,
Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in!

Shakespeare.

II

LORD OF HIMSELF

How happy is he born or taught
Who serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his highest skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death-
Not tied unto the world with care
Of prince's ear or vulgar breath;

Who hath his ear from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
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
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

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
The cure of that which is but corporal,
And doubtful days, which were named critical,
Have made their fairest flight

And now are out of sight.

Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind,
Wrapped in this paper lie,

Which in the taking if you misapply
You are unkind.

Your covetous hand,

Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,
Must now be reined.

True valour doth her own renown commend
In one full action; nor have you now more
To do than be a husband of that store.
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,
Even in youth.

IV

HONOUR IN BUD

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be:
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May:

Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.

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;
O view the wings of horse the meadows scouring!
The vanguard marches bravely.

Hark, the drums! Dub, dub!

They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes:
See how the arrows fly

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!
The battle totters; now the wounds begin:
O how they cry!

O how they die!

Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder!
See how he breaks the ranks asunder!

They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase,
And brave Polybius makes good his place:

To the plains, to the woods,

To the rocks, to the floods,

They fly for succour. Follow, follow, follow!
Hark how the soldiers hollow!

Brave Diocles is dead,

And all his soldiers fled;
The battle's won, and lost,

That

many a life hath cost.

Hey, hey!

VI

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep beneath this heap of stones!
Here they lie had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands.
Here from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here is an acre sown indeed

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
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn:
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air: