MICHAEL DRAYTON

Yet my poor rustic Muse

Nothing can move her, Nor the means I can use,

Though her true lover. Many a long winter's night

Have I waked for her, Yet this my piteous plight

Nothing can stir her. All thy sands, silver Trent,

Down to the Humber, The sighs that 1 have spent Never can number.

On thy bank, In a rank,

Let thy swans sing her y And with their music

Along let them bring her.

��F

��129 Agincourt

N AIR stood the wind for France

When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance

Longer will tarry, But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort, Furnish'd in warlike sort, Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt

In happy hour;

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