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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