Whether they be awake or sleepe, With what greate Care ought Virgins keepe, With what art and indevor, The Jewell which they ought to pryse Above the ritchest marchandise,-- And once lost lost for ever!
Virginity is a rare gem, Rated above a diadem, And was despised never: 'Tis that at which the most men ayme And being gott they count their game And once lost lost for ever.
Of the charming song "Haile beauteous _Dian_, Queene of Shades" the MS. gives a far inferior version:--
Thou _Trivia_, dost alone excell, In heaven when thou dost please to dwell Cald _Cynthia, Proserpine_ in Hell: But when thou theair art fyred And takest thy bugle and thy bowe, To chase on Earth the hart or doe, Thee for _Diana_ all men knowe, Who art mongst us admired: _Pan_ and _Pomona_ boath rejoyce, So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
Off all chast vestalls thou art queene Which are, which heretofore have been; The fawnes and satyres cladd in greene On earth wayte to attend thee; And when that thou on huntinge goest, In which thou art delighted moest, They off their active swiftnes boast, For which we all comend thee. _Pan_ and _Pomona_ boath rejoyce, So swaynes and nimphes with pipe and voyce.
We come now to a chronicle play (leaves 97-118), _Edmond Ironside: The English King_. This piece had a second title--_A trew Chronicle History called War hath made all friends_. It must be confessed that this old play is a tedious business, sadly wanting in life and movement. The following extract will give a taste of the author's quality:--
_Enter Canutus, Edricus with other Lords and souldiers_.
_Canutus_. A plague upon you all for arrant cowards! Looke how a dunghill cocke not rightly bred Doth come into the pitt with greater grace, Brislinge his feathers, settinge upp his plumes, Clappinge his winges and crowinge lowder out Then doth a cocke of game that meanes to fight; Yett after, when he feeles the spurres to pricke, Crakes like a Craven and bewrayes himself: Even soe my bigbond _Daines_, adrest to fight As though they meant to scale the Cope of heaven, (And like the Giants graple with the gods) At first encounter rush uppon theire foes But straight retire: retire? nay, run awaye As men distraught with lightninge from above Or dastards feared with a sodaine fraye.