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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=458950" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode to the Cambro-Britons and their Harp, His Ballad of Agi</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fair stood the wind for France,<br> When we our sails advance;<br> Nor now to prove our chance<br> Longer will tarry;<br> But putting to the main,<br> At Caux, the mouth of Seine,<br> With all his martial train<br> Landed King Harry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And taking many a fort,<br> Furnish'd in warlike sort,<br> Marcheth towards Agincourt<br> In happy hour;<br> Skirmishing day by day<br> With those that stopp'd his way,<br> Where the French gen'ral lay<br> With all his power.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Which, in his height of pride,<br> King Henry to deride,<br> His ransom to provide<br> To the King sending;<br> Which he neglects the while,<br> As from a nation vile<br> Yet with an angry smile<br> Their fall portending.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And turning to his men<br> Quoth our brave Henry then:<br> &quot;Though they to one be ten<br> Be not amazed.<br> Yet have we well begun:<br> Battles so bravely won<br> Have ever to the sun<br> By Fame been raised!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> &quot;And for myself,&quot; quoth he,<br> &quot;This my full rest shall be:<br> England ne'er mourn for me,<br> Nor more esteem me;<br> Victor I will remain,<br> Or on this earth lie slain;<br> Never shall she sustain<br> Loss to redeem me!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> &quot;Poitiers and Cressy tell<br> When most their pride did swell<br> Under our swords they fell;<br> No less our skill is<br> Than when our grandsire great,<br> Claiming the regal seat,<br> By many a warlike feat<br> Lopp'd the French lilies.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> The Duke of York so dread<br> The eager vaward led;<br> With the main Henry sped<br> Amongst his henchmen:<br> Excester had the rear,<br> A braver man not there<br> O Lord, how hot they were<br> On the false Frenchmen!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> They now to fight are gone;<br> Armour on armour shone;<br> Drum now to drum did groan:<br> To hear, was wonder;<br> That, with cries they make,<br> The very earth did shake;<br> Trumpet to trumpet spake,<br> Thunder to thunder.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Well it thine age became,<br> O noble Erpingham,<br> Which didst the signal aim<br> To our hid forces;<br> When, from a meadow by,<br> Like a storm suddenly,<br> The English archery<br> Stuck the French horses</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> With Spanish yew so strong,<br> Arrows a cloth-yard long,<br> That like to serpents stung,<br> Piercing the weather.<br> None from his fellow starts,<br> But playing manly parts,<br> And like true English hearts<br> Stuck close together.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> When down their bows they threw,<br> And forth their bilboes drew,<br> And on the French they flew,<br> Not one was tardy;<br> Arms were from shoulders sent,<br> Scalps to the teeth were rent,<br> Down the French peasants went:<br> Our men were hardy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> This while our noble King,<br> His broad sword brandishing,<br> Down the French host did ding,<br> As to o'erwhelm it.<br> And many a deep wound lent,<br> His arms with blood besprent,<br> And many a cruel dent<br> Bruised his helmet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Gloster, that duke so good,<br> Next of the royal blood,<br> For famous England stood<br> With his brave brother.<br> Clarence, in steel so bright,<br> Though but a maiden knight,<br> Yet in that furious fight<br> Scarce such another!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Warwick in blood did wade,<br> Oxford the foe invade,<br> And cruel slaughter made,<br> Still as they ran up.<br> Suffolk his axe did ply;<br> Beaumont and Willoughby<br> Bare them right doughtily;<br> Ferrers and Fanhope.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Upon Saint Crispin's Day<br> Fought was this noble fray,<br> Which fame did not delay<br> To England to carry.<br> O when shall English men<br> With such acts fill a pen,<br> Or England breed again<br> Such a King Harry?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Drayton">Michael Drayton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=458950" data-title="Ode to the Cambro-Britons and their Harp, His Ballad of Agi de Michael Drayton" data-description="Fair stood the wind for France,
 When we our sails advance;
 Nor now to prove our chance
 Longer will tarry;
 But putting to the main,
 At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
 With all his martial train
 Landed King Harry.

 And taking many a fort,
 Furnish..."></div>
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