SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

THE CAVALIER’S SONG.

  A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,
    A sword of metal keene! 
  All else to noble heartes is drosse,
    All else on earth is meaue. 
  The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
    The rowlinge of the drum,
  The clangor of the trumpet lowde,
    Be soundes from heaven that come;
  And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,
    Whenas their war-cryes swell,
  May tole from heaven an angel bright,
    And rouse a fiend from hell.

  Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
    And don your helmes amaine;
  Deathe’s couriers, fame and honor, call
    Us to the field againe. 
  No shrewish feares shall fill our eye
    When the sword-hilt’s in our hand—­
  Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit sighe
    For the fayrest of the land;
  Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
    Thus weepe and puling crye;
  Our business is like men to fight,
    And hero-like to die!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

* * * * *

GIVE A ROUSE.

  King Charles, and who’ll do him right now? 
  King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now? 
  Give a rouse:  here’s, in hell’s despite now,
  King Charles!

  Who gave me the goods that went since? 
  Who raised me the house that sank once? 
  Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
  Who found me in wine you drank once?

  (Chorus)

King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?  King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?  Give a rouse:  here’s, in hell’s despite now, King Charles!

  To whom used my boy George quaff else,
  By the old fool’s side that begot him? 
  For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
  While Noll’s damned troopers shot him?

  (Chorus)

King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?  King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?  Give a rouse:  here’s, in hell’s despite now, King Charles!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

NASEBY.

[June, 1645.]

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WI
TH-LINKS-OF-IRON; SERGEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT.

  O, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north,
  With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red? 
  And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? 
  And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?

  O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
  And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod: 
  For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
  Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.