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With loins in canvass bow-case tied,
Where arrows stick with mickle pride;
With hats pinn'd up, and bow in hand,
All day most fiercely there they stand,
Like ghosts of Adam Bell, and Clymme:
Sol sets for fear they 'll shoot at him.

Now Spynie, Ralph, and Gregory small,
And short hair'd Stephen, whey-faced Paul,
Whose times are out, indentures torn,
Who seven long years did never scorn
To fetch up coals for maid to use,
Wipe mistresses and children's shoes,
Do jump for joy they are made free,
Hire meagre steeds, to ride and see
Their parents old, who dwell as near
As place call'd Peak in Derbyshire.
There they alight, old crones are mild,
Each
weeps on crag of pretty child:
They portions give, trades up to set,
That babes may live, serve God and cheat.

Near house of law by Temple-Bar,

Now man of mace cares not how far
In stockings blue he marcheth on,
With velvet cape his cloak upon;
In girdle scrolls, where names of some
Are written down, whom touch of thumb
On shoulder left must safe convoy,
Annoying wights with name of Roy.
Poor pris'ner's friend that sees the touch
Cries out aloud, "I thought as much!"

Now vaulter good, and dancing lass
On rope, and man that cries "Ay pass!"

And tumbler young that needs but stoop,
Lay head to heel, to creep through hoop;
And man in chimney hid to dress
Puppet that acts our old Queen Bess;
And man that, whilst the puppets play,
Through nose expoundeth what they say:
And man that does in chest include
Old Sodom and Gomorrah lewd;
And white oat-eater, that does dwell
In stable small at sign of Bell,
That lifts up hoof to show the pranks
Taught by magician styled Banks;
And ape led captive still in chain,
Till he renounce the Pope and Spain.
All these on hoof now trudge from town
To cheat poor turnip-eating clown.

Now man of war with visage red
Grows choleric and swears for bread.
He sendeth note to man of kin,

But man leaves word, "I'm not within."
He meets in street with friend call'd Will,
And cries, "Old rogue! what, living still?"
But ere that street they quite are past,
He softly asks, "What money hast?"
Quoth friend, "A crown." He cries, "Dear heart!
O base no more; sweet, lend me part!"

But stay, my frighten'd pen is fled;
Myself through fear creep under bed;
For just as muse would scribble more-
Fierce city dun did rap at door.

Sir William Davenant.

PART OF AN ODE

Upon His Majesty's Proclamation (A.D. 1630) commanding the gentry to reside upon their estates in the country.

OW war is all the world about,
And everywhere Erinnys reigns
Or else the torch so late put out,
The stench remains.

Holland for many years hath been
Of Christian tragedies the stage,
Yet seldom hath she play'd a scene
Of bloodier rage.

And France that was not long composed,
With civil drums again resounds,

And ere the old are fully closed

Receives new wounds.

The great Gustavus in the west
Plucks the imperial eagle's wing,

Than whom the earth did ne'er invest
A fiercer king.

What should I tell of Polish bands

And the bloods boiling in the north
'Gainst whom the furied Russians

Their troops bring forth.

Only the island which we sow
(A world without the world) so far
From present wounds it cannot show

An ancient scar.

White Peace (the beautifull'st of things)
Seems here her everlasting rest

To fix, and spreads her downy wings
Over the nest.

Yet we, as if some foe were here,
Leave the despised fields to clowns,
And come to save ourselves, as 'twere
In walled towns.

Hither we bring wives, babes, rich clothes
And gems, till now my sovereign
The growing evil doth oppose,
Counting in vain

His care preserves us from annoy
Of enemies his realms t' invade,
Unless he force us to enjoy

The peace he made.

To roll themselves in envied leisure
He therefore sends the landed heirs,
Whilst he proclaims not his own pleasure
So much as theirs.

The sap and blood o' th' land, which fled
Into the root and choked the heart,
Are bid their quick'ning power to spread
Through every part.

Oh, 'twas an act not for my muse
To celebrate, nor the dull age,

Until the country air infuse

A purer rage.

D

And if the fields as thankful prove
For benefits received as seed,
They will, to 'quite so great a love,
A Virgil breed.

A hymn that shall not cease

Th' Augustus of our world to praise
In equal verse, author of peace
And halcyon days.

Sir Richard Fanshawe.

A SONG TO AMORET.

F I were dead, and in my place
Some fresher youth design'd,

To warm thee with new fires, and grace Those arms I left behind;

Were he as faithful as the sun

That's wedded to the sphere,

His blood as chaste and temp'rate run
As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich, and with his heaps
And spacious share of earth
Could make divine affection cheap
And court his golden birth;

For all these arts I'd not believe
(No, though he should be thine)
The mighty Amorist could give
So rich a heart as mine.

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