Another of the Same Armories

Whylome this subject Crowne, a soveraigne crowne pursu'd
When that Heroicke Prince, a mightie king subdu'de
Then did these plumes soe well the brawle of Poycters daunce
As that the wrong was quaild, that brav'd his right in Fraunce
This done hee did restore the Castile king displacde
The trophes of his fame were Monarchs raysd, and baste
Soe thundred that great Mars, whom Brittaines termed black
Yet of great Brittaines force, did half great Brittaine lack.

Verses to Bee Sett over the three Crownd Plumes the Princes Armores

Bellona vaunts that this brave Prince to her belongd
Because hee bare these loftie plumes the badge of Mart
But myld Minerva plain'd her right was therein wrongd
For that the learned Quills are instruments of Art
Nay then quoth Juno, stay, this Crowne hee houlds of mee
Therefore shall Arts, and Arms but his attendants bee
Now tell mee noble Fraunce what wrong maye well with-stand
A Crowned head, a prudent heart, a valiaunt hand.

Phoebe

If for to be alone, and all the night to wander,
Maids can prove chaste, then chaste is Phaebe without slander.

ANSWER .

Foole, still to be alone, all night in Heaven to wander,
Would make the wanton chaste, then she's chaste without slander.

Song

Down to death, my dear, together
You and I a-drifting go,
Light on life as any feather
Lies on air. Reluctant? No!
Like two kites released from tether,
Wafted through delightful weather,
Down to death, my dear, together
You and I a-drifting go!

The Mouse-Trap

BY THE SAME .

A S many traps there are for men as mice,
But far more dang'rous are the traps of vice;
A little mouse can only life forego,
But man must sink to endless worlds of woe;
There doom'd eternal torments to endure,
And e'en in death itself deny'd a cure!

That yeelds yow due prayse I am the meanest of manye

That yeelds yow due prayse I am the meanest of manye
and yett my wordes nott leaste effectuall
For synce yow geve me leaste Cause of anye
the worlde cannott deme my commendation parciall
When moste is saide, yet more demaundes your deserte
this write I with my hande, and thinke the same with my hart.

To B. W.

So, kind, unconquered spirit, fare you well.
Sedbergh must onward yet with steadfast mind,
(For such would be your wish) — nor must we tell
The world of sorrow that you leave behind.
And yet we feel Winder doth surely grieve
His well-loved pilgrim of the happy years. —
Surely the day droops sadly: and at eve
Our Heaven trembles into starry tears!

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