To My Frinds the Camber- Britans and Theyr Harp
To My Frinds the Camber-Britans and Theyr Harp
Fayre stood the winde for France,
When we our sailes aduance,
Nor now to proue our chance
Longer not tarry,
But put vnto the mayne:
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his warlike trayne
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a forte,
Furnish’d in warlike sorte,
Comming toward Agincourte
(In happy houre)
Skermishing day by day
With those oppose his way,
Whereas the Genrall laye
With all his powre.
Which in his height of pride,
As Henry to deride,
His ransome to prouide
Vnto him sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vyle,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth famous Henry then,
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazed:
Yet haue we well begun;
Battailes so brauely wonne
Euermore to the sonne
By fame are raysed.
And for my selfe, (quoth hee)
This my full rest shall bee,
England nere mourne for me,
Nor more esteeme me:
Victor I will remaine,
Or on this earth be slaine;
Neuer shall she sustaine
Losse to redeeme me.
Poiters and Cressy tell,
When moste their pride did swell,
Vnder our swords they fell:
Ne lesse our skill is,
Then when our grandsyre greate,
Claiming the regall seate,
In many a warlike feate
Lop’d the French lillies.
The Duke of Yorke soe dread
The eager vaward led;
With the maine Henry sped
Amongst his hench men.
Excester had the rear,
A brauer man not there.
And now preparing were
For the false Frenchmen
And ready to be gone.
Armour on armour shone,
Drum vnto drum did grone,
To hear was woonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake:
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O, noble Erpingham!
That didst the signall frame
Vnto the forces;
When from a medow by,
Like a storme, sodainely
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
The Spanish vghe so strong,
Arrowes a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stoong,
Piercing the wether:
None from his death now starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English harts
Stuck close together.
When down theyr bowes they threw,
And foorth theyr bilbowes drewe,
And on the French they flew,
No man was tardy.
Arms from the shoulders sent,
Scalpes to the teeth were rent;
Downe the French pesants went
These were men hardye.
When now that noble King,
His broade sword brandishing,
Into the hoast did fling,
As to or’whelme it;
Who many a deep wound lent,
His armes with blood besprent,
And many a cruell dent
Brused his helmett.
Glo’ster that Duke so good,
Next of the royall blood,
For famous England stood
With his braue brother:
Clarence in steele most bright,
That yet a maiden knighte,
Yet in this furious fighte
Scarce such an other.
Warwick in bloode did wade,
Oxford the foes inuade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran vp:
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtyly,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
On happy Cryspin day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O! when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed agen
Such a King Harry?