Had Henryes name beene onely met in Prose,

Recorded by the humble wit of those,

Who write of lesse then Kings: who victory,

As calmely mention, as a Pedigree,

The French, alike with vs, might view his name

His actions too, and not confesse a shame:

Nay, grow at length, so boldly troublesome,

As, to dispute if they were ouercome.

But thou hast wakte their feares: thy fiercer hand

Hath made their shame as lasting, as their land.

By thee againe they are compeld to knowe

How much of Fate is in an English foe.

They bleede afresh by thee, and thinke the harme

Such; they could rather wish, t’were Henryes arme:

Who thankes thy painfull quill; and holds it more

To be thy Subiect now, then King before.

By thee he conquers yet; when eu’ry word

Yeelds him a fuller honour, then his sword.

Strengthens his action against time: by thee,

Hee victory, and France, doth hold in fee.

So well obseru’d he is, that eu’ry thing

Speakes him not onely English, but a King.

And France, in this, may boast her fortunate

That shee was worthy of so braue a hate.

Her suffring is her gayne. How well we see

The Battaile labour’d worthy him, and thee,

Where, wee may Death discouer with delight,

And entertaine a pleasure from a fight.

Where wee may see how well it doth become

The brau’ry of a Prince to ouercome.

What Power is a Poet: that can add

A life to Kings, more glorious, then they had.

For what of Henry, is vnsung by thee,

Henry doth want of his Eternity.

What lofty Trophyes of eternall Fame,

England may vaunt thou do’st erect to her,

Yet forced to confesse, (yea blush for shame,)

That she no Honour doth on thee confer.

How it would become her, would she learne to knowe

Once to requite thy Heauen-borne Art and Zeale,

Or at the least her selfe but thankfull showe

Her ancient Glories that do’st still reueale:

Sing thou of Loue, thy straines (like powerfull Charmes)

Enrage the bosome with an amorous fire,

And when againe thou lik’st to sing of Armes

The Coward thou with Courage do’st inspire:

But when thou com’st to touch our Sinfull Times,

Then Heauen far more then Earth speakes in thy Rimes.

It hath beene question’d, Michael, if I bee

A Friend at