Lyra Heroica | Page 9

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.
_Jonson._
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.
_Jonson._
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!
Hey, hey!
Brave Diocles is dead,
And all his soldiers fled;
The battle's won, and lost,
That many a life hath cost.

_Fletcher._
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:


Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew-bespangled herb and
tree!
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,
Above an
hour since, yet you not drest,
Nay, not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep
in,
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the
lark