Sir Raff the rich Rugby,
With dints were beaten down.
For Witharington my heart was woe,
That ever he slain should be:
For when both his legs were hewn in two,
Yet he kneel'd and fought on his knee.
There was slain with the doughty Douglas
Sir Hugh the Mongon-byrry,
Sir Davy Lwdale, that worthy was,—
His sister's son was he :
Sir Charles a Murray, in that place,
That never a foot would flee;
Sir Hugh Maxwell, a lord he was,
With the Douglas did he de.
So on the morrow they made them biers
Of birch and hazel so gray;
Many widows with weeping tears
Came to fetch their mates away.
Tividale may carpe of care,
Northumberland may make great moan: For two such captains as slain were there On the march party shall never be none.
Word is comen to Edin-burrow
To Jamy our Scottish King,
That doughty Douglas, lieutenant of the marches, He lay slain Cheviat within.
His hands did he weal and wring,
He said, "Alas! and woe is me!
Such another captain Scotland within,"
He said, "i' faith should never be."
Word is comen to lovely London
To the fourth Harry our king,
That Lord Percy, lieutenant of the marches,
He lay slain Cheviat within.
"God have mercy on his soul," said King Harry, "Good Lord, if thy will it be!
I have a hundred captains in England," he said, "As good as ever was he:
But Percy, an I brook my life,
Thy death well quit shall be."
As our noble king made his a-vow,
Like a noble prince of renown,
For the death of the Lord Percy,
He did the battle of Hombyll-down,
Where six and thirty Scottish knights
On a day were beaten down :
Glendale glitter'd on their armour bright,
Over castle, tower and town.
Jesu Christ our balys bete
And to the bliss us bring!
Thus was the hunting of the Cheviat :
God send us all good ending!
THE GLORY OF ENGLAND-IN
ECLIPSE.
Speech of John of Gaunt.
METHINKS I am a prophet new inspired—
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself,
Against infection and the hand of war ;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service and true chivalry,
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son,—
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation thro' the world,
Is now leased out,—I die pronouncing it,—
Like to a tenement or pelting farm ;
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds;
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death!
SHAKSPERE, King Richard II., Act ii. Sc. 1.
PRINCE HENRY OF MONMOUTH.
King Henry IV. But wherefore do I tell these news
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,
Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?
Prince Henry. Do not think so; you shall not find
And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
Your majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head,
And, in the closing of some glorious day,
Be bold to tell you that I am your son ;
When I will wear a garment all of blood,
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it :
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
This, in the name of God, I promise here;
The which, if He be pleased I shall perform,
I do beseech your majesty, may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:
If not, the end of life cancels all bands;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.
SHAKSPERE, I Henry IV., Act iii. Sc. 2.
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