MICHAEL DRAYTON
To whom the Golden Age Still nature's laws doth give, No other cares attend. But them to defend From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land
Above the seas that flows The clear \vind throws, Your hearts to swell
Approaching the dear strand;
In kenning of the shore
(Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then ' Let cannons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven.
And in regions far,
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came; And plant our name Under that star
Not known unto our North.
And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere
Apollo's sacred tree
You it may see A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.
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