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"Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give
To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?
Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee :'
Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.
'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,
Whom thinke you before you now you doe beholde ?'
'A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,
Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.'
No captaine of England ; behold in your sight
Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight :
Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captainę you see,
But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.'
' But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,
Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?
If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,
Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.'
The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,
Who long had advanced for England's fair crowne ;
Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,
And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.
But this virtuous mayden despised them all :
''Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall :
A mayden of England, sir, never will bee
The wench of a monarcke,' quoth Mary Ambree.
Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,
Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne ;
Therfore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambrée.

RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH Poetry.

Elizabeth of Bohemia

You meaner beauties of the night,

Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,

You common-people of the skies,
What are you when the Moon shall rise ?

I

Ye violets that first

appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the Rose is blown? Ye curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise ?
So when my Mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

Tell me, if she were not design'd Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind ?

SIR H. WOTTON,

Cherry Ripe THERE is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds filld with snow :
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still ;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threatning with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand, These sacred cherries to come nigh, -Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!

CAMPION.

Morning
PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day

With night we banish sorrow,
Sweet air blow soft, mount Lark aloft

To give my Love good-morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind,

Notes from the Lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow ;

To give my Love good-morrow

Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast,

Sing birds in every furrow,
And from each hill, let music shrill,

Give my fair Love good-morrow :
Black-bird and thrush, in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow.

To give my Love good-morrow
Sing birds in every furrow.

T. HEYWOOD.

Death the Leveller
THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things ;
There is no armour against fate ;
Death lays his icy hand on kings :

Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still :

Early or late

They stoop, to And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

fate,

I 2

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds :

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

J. SHIRLEY. h Annan Water ANNAN Water's wading deep,

And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny ; And I am loath she should wet her feet,

Because I love her best of ony. He's loupen on his bonny gray,

He rode the right gate and the ready; For all the storm he wadna stay,

For seeking of his bonny lady. And he has ridden o’er field and fell,

Through moor, and moss, and many a mire ; His spurs of steel were sair to bide,

And from her four feet flew the fire. My bonny gray, now play your part !

If ye be the steed that wins my dearie, With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye,

And never spur shall make you wearie.' The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare ;

But when she wan the Annan Water, She could not have ridden the ford that night

Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. “O boatman, boatman, put off your boat,

Put off your boat for golden money!' But for all the gold in fair Scotland,

He dared not take him through to Annie '( I was sworn so late yestreen,

Not by a single oath, but mony !
I'll cross the drumly stream to-night,

Or never could I face my honey,

6

The side was stey, and the bottom deep,

From bank to brae the water pouring ; The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,

For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. He spurr'd her forth into the flood,

I wot she swam both strong and steady ; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady!

UNKNOWN.

To a Waterfowl

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone—the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

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