Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre, At length she was forced to make a retyre; Her foes they besett her on everye side, As thinking close siege shee cold never abide; Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand, 'Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give 'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold, Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?' ‘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 'But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare, The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne, But this virtuous mayden despised them all: Then to her owne country shee backe did returne, RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA You meaner beauties of the night, Ye violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, As if the spring were all your own,— Ye curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, By your weak accents; what's your praise So when my Mistress shall be seen SIR H. WOTTON. CHERRY RIPE THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; Those cherries fairly do enclose Her eyes like angels watch them still; All that approach with eye or hand, MORNING PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day, To give my Love good-morrow ANON. Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast, And from each hill, let music shrill, Give my fair Love good-morrow: 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: 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; They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, 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. N 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; 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! 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. 'O I was sworn so late yestreen, |