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Be still yourselves, ye fight against the droffe

Of those, that oft have runne from you with loffe.
How many Somerfets, diffentions brands,
Have felt the force of our revengefull hands!
From whome this Youth, as from a princely floud,
Derives his best, yet not untainted bloud.

Have our affaults made Lancaster to droupe?
And fhall this Welshman with his ragged troupe
Subdue the Norman and the Saxon line,
That onely Merlin may be thought divine?
See what a guide these fugitives have chofe,

Who, bred among the French, our ancient foes,
Forgets the English language, and the ground,

And knowes not what our drums and trumpets found!"

Sir J. Feaumont's Poems.
Lond. Ed. 1629.

Earl RICHMOND's Speech.

"IT is in vaine, brave friends, to fhew the right

Which we are fore'd to feeke by civill fight.

Your fwords are brandifht in a noble cause,
To free your Country from a Tyrant's jawes.
What angry Planet, what difaftrous figne
Directs Plantagenet's afflicted line?

Ah, was it not enough, that mutuall rage
In deadly battels fhould this race ingage,
Till by their blowes themselves hey fewer make,
And pillers fall, which France could never flake?


But muft this crooked Monfter now be found,
To lay rough hands on that unclosed wound?
His fecret plots have much increast the flood,
He with his brother's, and his nephewes blood,
Hath ftain'd the brightneffe of his Father's flow res,
And made his own white Rofe as red as ours.
This is the day, whofe fplendour puts to flight
Obfcuring clouds, and brings an age of light.
We fee no hindrance of those wifhed times,
But this Ufurper, whofe depreffing crimes

Will drive him from the mountaine where he stands,
So that he needs must fall without our hands.
In this we happy are, that by our armes
Both Yorke and Lancaster revenge their harmes.
Here Henry's fervants joyne with Edward's friends,
And leave their privat griefes for publicke ends."

Sir J. Beaumont,


SPEECH of VOA DA, Queen of the BRITTON S, before the Battle with the


"MY ftate and fex, not hand or hart, most valiant Friends,


Me (wretched caufe of your repaire, by wicked Romans il'd) From that revenge which I do wish, and ye have cause to worke:

In which suppose not Voada in female feares to lurke.

For, loe, myselfe, unlike myfelfe, and these fame Ladies faire In armor, not to shrinke an ynch wheare hottest doings are. Even we do dare to bid the base, and you yourselves shall fee Your selves to come behind in armes: the Romaines too that be

Such Conquerors, and valiantlie can womankind oppreffe, Shall know that Brittish women can the Romish wrongs re


Then arme ye with like courages as Ladies fhall present, Whom ye, nor wounds, nor death, the praise of onfet fhall


Nor envie that our martiall rage exceeds your manly ire, For by how much more we endure, so much more we defire Revenge, on those in whose default we are unhallowed thus, Whilft they forget themselves for men, or to be borne of us :


Ye yeeld them tribute, and from us their Legións have their


Thus were too much, but more then thus, the haughtie Tirant's sway;

That I am Queene from being wrong'd doth nothing me protect:

Their rapes against my Daughters both I alfo might object : They maydes deflower, they wives enforce, and ufe their wils in all,

And yeat we live, defferring fight, inferring fo our fall.

But valiant Brutons, ventrous Scots, and warlike Pichts, I


Exhorting whom I fhould dehort, your fiearcenes to deferre: Leffe courage more confiderate would make your foes to quake :

My heart hath joy'd to see your hands the Romaine standards take.

But when as force and fortune fail'd, that you with teeth fhould fight,

And in the faces of their Foes your women, in defpight, Should fling their fuckling Babes, I hild fuch valiantnes but vaine :

Inforced flight is no difgrace, fuch flyers fight againe.

Here are ye, Scots, that with the King, my valiant Brother


The Latines, wondring at your prowes, through Rome in triumph led:

Ye Mars-ftar'd Pichtes of Scythian breed are here colleagues, and more,

Ye Dardane Brutes, laft named, but in valour meant before : In your conduct, moft knightly Friends, I fuperfeade the


Ye come to fight, and we in fight to hope and helpe our best."

Warner's Alb. Eng. Chap. 18. B. 3. 1602.


EHOLD, grim Tyrant, here before thee stands

A man had been thy death, had not these hands
Prov'd traitours to my mind: had made that grave
Been thine, which now's prepared for thy flave.
If Scævola must undergo death's doom,
There's none but will write guiltleffe on his tomb:
I fet upon with fearleffe courage those

Who were our Capitols, our Countrie's foes.
Why are the Heavens then thus against me bent;
And not propitious to my brave intent :

What, are the Gods afham'd to lend their aid;
Or are they of this Tyrant's pow'r afraid?

Or have the Fates referved him that he
In future triumphs might a trophie be?
Whate'er 'twas made them thus 'gainst me conspire,
It grieves my foul it had not its defire.
Etruria, see what fouls the Romans bear,

Admire the noble acts the Latians dare;

Long after me that will this fact yet do,
There comes an other and an other too;

There want not those who hope to say they wore
A lawrel died in thy crimson gore:


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