To The Cambro-Britans And Their Harpe, His Ballad Of Agincovrt

Faire stood the Wind for France,     When we our Sayles aduance,     Nor now to proue our chance,             Longer will tarry;     But putting to the Mayne,     At Kaux, the Mouth of Sene,     With all his Martiall Trayne,             Landed King HARRY.     And taking many a Fort,     Furnish'd in Warlike sort,     Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt,             In happy howre;     Skirmishing day by day,     With those that stop'd his way,     Where the French Gen'rall lay,             With all his Power.     Which in his Hight of Pride,     King HENRY to deride,     His Ransome to prouide             To the King sending.     Which he neglects the while,     As from a Nation vile,     Yet with an angry smile,             Their fall portending.     And turning to his Men,     Quoth our braue HENRY then,     Though they to one be ten,             Be not amazed.     Yet haue we well begunne,     Battels so brauely wonne,     Haue euer to the Sonne,             By Fame beene raysed.     And, for my Selfe (quoth he),     This my full rest shall be,     England ne'r mourne for Me,             Nor more esteeme me.     Victor I will remaine,     Or on this Earth lie slaine,     Neuer shall Shee sustaine,             Losse to redeeme me.     Poiters and Cressy tell,     When most their Pride did swell,     Vnder our Swords they fell,             No lesse our skill is,     Than when our Grandsire Great,     Clayming the Regall Seate,     By many a Warlike feate,             Lop'd the French Lillies.     The Duke of Yorke so dread,     The eager Vaward led;     With the maine, HENRY sped,             Among'st his Hench-men.     EXCESTER had the Rere,     A Brauer man not there,     O Lord, how hot they were,             On the false French-men!     They now to fight are gone,     Armour on Armour shone,     Drumme now to Drumme did grone,             To heare, was wonder;     That with the Cryes they make,     The very Earth did shake,     Trumpet to Trumpet spake,             Thunder to Thunder.     Well it thine Age became,     O Noble ERPINGHAM,     Which didst the Signall ayme,             To our hid Forces;     When from a Medow by,     Like a Storme suddenly,     The English Archery             Stuck the French Horses,     With Spanish Ewgh so strong,     Arrowes a Cloth-yard long,     That like to Serpents stung,             Piercing the Weather;     None from his fellow starts,     But playing Manly parts,     And like true English hearts,             Stuck close together.     When downe their Bowes they threw,     And forth their Bilbowes drew,     And on the French they flew,             Not one was tardie;     Armes were from shoulders sent,     Scalpes to the Teeth were rent,     Downe the French Pesants went,             Our Men were hardie.     This while our Noble King,     His broad Sword brandishing,     Downe the French Hoast did ding,             As to o'r-whelme it;     And many a deepe Wound lent,     His Armes with Bloud besprent,     And many a cruell Dent             Bruised his Helmet.     GLOSTER, that Duke so good,     Next of the Royall Blood,     For famous England stood,             With his braue Brother;     CLARENCE, in Steele so bright,     Though but a Maiden Knight,     Yet in that furious Fight,             Scarce such another,     WARWICK in Bloud did wade,     OXFORD the Foe inuade,     And cruell slaughter made,             Still as they ran vp;     SVFFOLKE his Axe did ply,     BEAVMONT and WILLOVGHBY     Bare them right doughtily,             FERRERS and FANHOPE.     Vpon Saint CRISPIN'S day     Fought was this Noble Fray,     Which Fame did not delay,             To England to carry;     O, when shall English Men     With such Acts fill a Pen,     Or England breed againe,             Such a King HARRY?