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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 brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.

Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won,

Have ever to the sun,

By fame been raised.

And for myself (quoth he),
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.

Victor I will remain,

Or on this earth lie slain,

Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

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Poitiers and Cressy tell

When most their pride did swell,

Under our swords they fell,

No less our skill is,

Than when our grandsire-great,
Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led,
With the main, Henry sped,

Amongst his hench-men.

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Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went,
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broad sword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it,

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother;

Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,

Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby, Bore them right doughtily,

Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry;

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SINCE there's no help, come let us kiss and part,
Nay I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes:

Now if thou would'st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

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JOHN MILTON

1608-1674

JOHN MILTON, the poet of Puritanism, was born in Bread Street, London, not far from the Mermaid Tavern, where Shakespeare and his friends held their merry meetings. His father was a scrivener; that is, a sort of lawyer. He was a Puritan, but not of the severe type of the Pilgrim Fathers, for he was devoted to music and employed one of the best artists in England to paint a portrait of his little son.

Milton began his education at an early age and soon became a very hard-working student. "From the 12th year of my age,” he says, "I scarcely ever went to bed before midnight." While a mere boy he learned to read not only Greek and Latin, but Hebrew, French, and Italian. He spent seven years at Cambridge, and before he left the University he won the admiration of all his fellows for his beauty and purity of life - they called him "the lady of Christ's "— as well as for his learning and genius. He wrote a number of short poems while at college, the most notable of which is the Ode on the Morning of the Nativity.

Milton had been destined for the church, but at Cambridge his Puritan views of church government grew so strong that he felt unable to place himself under the High Church bishops who were then supreme in England. So he returned to his father's house at Horton, a little village near Windsor, and spent the next five years in study and in writing poetry. He decided at this time to become a poet, a great poet even. "You ask what I am thinking of?" he wrote to a friend. Of immortality - I am pluming my wings and meditating flight." During these years at Horton he wrote L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, Comus, Lycidas, and some shorter poems.

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