The Battle of Brunanburh. R. A. Hamer, Choice ofAnglo-Saxon Verse. London: Faber and Faber, 1970. / James W. Bright.

An Anglo-Saxon
Reade•_ New York: Henry Holt, 1913.

King Athelstan, the lord of warriors, Her iEoelstan cyning, eorla drihten,
Patron of heroes, and his brother too, beorna beahgifa, and his brobor eac,
Prince Edmund, won themselves eternal glory in Eadmund xoeling, ealdorlangne ifs
battle with the edges of their swords geslOgon act s=ce sweorda ecgum
Round Brunanburh; they broke the wall of shields, ymbe Brunanburh: bordweall clufan,
The sons of Edward with their well-forged swords heowan heabolinde hamora Mum,
Slashed at the linden-shields; such was their nature eaforan Padweardes, swa him gemOele wows
From boyhood that in battle they had often fram cneomagum, axt hi xt campe oft
Fought for their land, its treasures and its homes, wia la5ra gehwwne land
Against all enemies. Their foes fell dead, ealgodon„ hard and hamas. Hettend
The Scottish soldiers and their pirate host crungon Scotta leode and scipflotan,
Were doomed to perish: and with blood of men Mge feollan, feld dennode
The field was darkened from the time the sun secga swate, sil)pan sunne app
Rose at the break of day, the glorious star, on morgentrd. mere tungol,
God the eternal Lord's bright candle passed glad ofer grundas, Godes candel beorht,
Across the land, until this noble creature eves Drihtnes, o sio xoele gesceaft
Sank to its resting-place. There many men soh to setle. Dmr larg secg monig
Lay slain by spears, and northern warriors garum ageted, guma Noraerna
Shot down despite their shields, and Scotsmen too, ofer scyld scoten, swylce Scyttisc eac,
Weary, with battle sated. The West Saxons werig ranges sad. Wesseaxe fora
Throughout the whole long passing of the day andlangne dog eorodcystum
Pressed on in troops behind the hostile people, on last legdon Mourn 5eodum;
Hewed fiercely from the rear the fleeing host heowan hereflyman hindan 6earle
With well-ground swords. The Mercians refused mecum mylenscearpum. Myrce ne wyrndon
Hard battle-play to none among the fighters heardes handplegan h leoa ridnurn
Who came with Anlaf over rolling seas, adra 6e mid Aniafe ofer dargebland
Bringing invasion to this land by ship, on fides be sme land gesi5hton,
Destined to die in battle. Five young kings
Lay dead upon the battlefield, by swords
Sent to their final sleep; and likewise seven
Of Antes earls, and countless of his host.
Both Scots and seamen. There the Norsemen's chief
Was put to flight, and driven by dire need
With a small retinue to seek his ship.
The ship pressed out to sea, the king departed
Onto the yellow flood and saved his life.
Likewise the wise old Constantinus came,
The veteran, to his northern native land
By flichit; he had no reason to exult
In that encounter; for he lost there friends
And was deprived of kinsmen in the strife
Upon that battlefield, and left his son
Destroyed by wounds on that grim place of slaughter,
The young man in the fight. The grey-haired man
Had little cause to boast about that battle,
The sly old soldier, any more than Anlaf,
They could not with their remnant laugh and claim
That they were better in warlike deeds
When banners met upon the battlefield,
Spears clashed and heroes greeted one another,
Weapons contended, when they played at war
With Edward's sons upon the place of carnage.
The Norsemen left them in their well-nailed ships,
The sad survivors of the darts, on Dingesmere
Over the deep sea back they went to Dublin
To Ireland they returned with shameful hearts.
The brothers also both went home together,
The king and prince returned to their own country,
The land of Wessex, triumphing in war.
fge to gefeohte. Fife lagon
on clam campstede cyningas geonge,
sweordum aswefede, swylce seofene Eac
eorlas Anlafes, unrim herges,
lfotena and Scott& Darr geflymed wearo
Norbmanna brego, neade gebded,
to lides stefne lytle weorode:
cread cnear on Plot, cyning at gewat
on fealene flEd, feorh generede.
Swylce caer Eac se froda mid Mame corn on
his cyktre nosh, Costantinus,
Mr hilderinc; hreman ne 6orfte
meta geManan; he wars his maga sceard,
freonda gefylled on folcstede,
beslwgen get 532CCe, and his sunu forlet
on wwlstowe wundum forgrunden,
geongne a2t gibe. Gylpan ne borfte
beam blandenfeax billgeslihtes,
eald inwidda, ne Anlaf ay ma
mid heora herelgum hlihhan ne oorftun
owt hi beaduweorca beteran wurdon on
campstede cumbolgehnastes,
garmittinge, gumena gemotes,
wpemge‘vrixies, 8ws hi on wwlfelda
wiO Eadweardes eaforan plegodori.
Gewiton him I)a Noramenn nwgledcearrum,
dreorig dam& laf„ on Dinges mere
ofer dEop waster Dyflin secan,
and eft Iraland, wisctriode.
Swylce 6a gebrOaor begen wtsomne,
cyning and xoeling, cylotle sebum,
Wesseaxena land, wages hremige.
They left behind corpses for the dark
Black-coated raven, horny beaked to enjoy,
And for the eagle, white-backed and dun-coated,
The greedy war-hawk, and that grey wild beast
The forest wolf. Nor has there on this island
Been ever yet a greater number slain,
Killed by the edges of the sword before
this time, as books make known to us, and old
And learned scholars, after hither came
The Angles and the Saxons from the east
Over the broad sea sought the land of Britain.
Proud wamiakers. Victorious warriors,
Conquered the Welsh, and so obtained this land.
Letan him behindan hra bryttigan
salowigpadan, done sweartan hrfn,
hyrnednebban, and done hasopadan,
earn aeftan hwit, &ses brcican,
grdigne gadhafoc, and daet gra-ege deor,
wulf on wealda. Ne weard wwl mare
on 65s iglande fre gyrta
folces gefylled beforan Oyssum
sweordes ecgum, oxs oe us secgad bee,
ealde fiawitan, siNDan eastan hider
Engle and Seaxe Lipp becomon,
ofer brade brimu Brytene sohton,
wlance wigsmidas, Wealas ofercOmon,
eorlas a•hwate eard begeatan.
The Hundred Years' War: The Battle of Agincourt (1415)
Shakespeare. Henry- V (1599), 4.3:
Enter the KING
WESTMORLAND. 0 that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work today.
KING. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin. If
we are marked to die, we are enough
To do Our country loss. And if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's
will, I pray thee wish not one man more. By Jove,
I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost,
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But
if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As
one man more, methinks, would share from me, For
the best hope I have. 0, do not wish one morel Rather
proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host, That he
which hath no stomach to this fight
Let him depart. His passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian. He that
outlives this day and comes safe home Will stand
a-tiptoe when this day is named, And rouse him at
the name of Crispian.
Shakespeare. Henp:
He that shall live this day and see old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be
in their flowing cups freshly remembered. This
story shall the good man teach his son, And
Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world
But we in it shall be remembered.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers—
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition—
And gentlemen in England, now abed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Ed. A. Gun. 2'd ed. Cambridge: Cambndge UP, 2005.
The Tudor monarchy: alliance with Scotland
William Dunbar. "To the Princess Margaret on her Arrival at Holyrood" (1503)

d
Now fayre, fayrest off every fayre,
Princes most plesant and preclare,
The lustyest one alyire that bync, ngf dir/

Welcurn of Scotland to be quene!

5 Younge tender plant of pulcritud

Des cendyd of imperyalle blade,
Freshe fragrant floure of fayrehede shone, \
Velum of Scotland to be queue?

Swet lusty lusum lady clere,

10 Most myghty kyngis dochter dere,
Borne of a princes most serene,
Welcum of Scotland to be quene!

Welcum the Rose bathe redo and Whyte,

WeIcum the doure of our delyte,
15 Our spreit rejoysyng frame the sone beme,
Welcum of Scotland to be quene;
Welcum of Scotlande to be quene!

2. Printer. princess; precievr. noble 3. Illsoest. most beautiful; bine-. is

5. palaimd: beauty 7. figrehede shone: bright loveliness 9. Jusron: fair; dere: bright
10. .0E-ell: spirit; sane berm: sunbeam

Tire Me Poems of Henry son, Dunbar and DouAlas. Ed. j.A. Tasioulas.
Edinburgh: Carinongate, 1999. Tames IV & Margaret Tudor. Seaton armorial, Ills Ace. 9309 (early 17th c.)
National Library of Scotland
Robert Southwell, "Decease Release" (c. 1593-95)

Rue not my death, rejoice at my repose,

Dum morior, orior
It was no death to me but to my woe,
The pounded spice both taste and sent doth please, In The bud was opened to let out the rose,
The chains unloosed to let the captive go.
fading smoke the force doth incense show,
The perished kernel springeth with increase,
A Prince by birth, a prisoner by mishap,
The lopped tree doth best and soonest grow.
From Crown to cross, from throne to thrall I fell,
My right my ruth, my titles wrought my trap,
God's spice I was, and pounding was my due, In
My weal my woe, my worldly heaven my hell.
fading breath my incense favoured best;
Death was the mean, my kernel to renew, By
By death from prisoner to a prince enhanced,
lopping shot I up to heavenly rest.
From cross to crown, from thrall to throne again,
My ruth my right, my trap my style advanced,
Some things more perfect are in their decay,
From woe to weal, from hell to heavenly reian.
Like spark that going out gives clearest light,
Robert S. Miola. Early Modern Catholicism: An Anthology ofP rimary Sources.
Such was my hap, whose doleful dying day
Oxford: OUP, 2007.
Began my joy and termed fortune's spite.

Alive a Queen, now dead I am a Saint,

Once Mary called, my name now Martyr is,
From earthly reign debarred by restraint,
In lieu wherof i reign in heavenly bliss.

My life, my grief, my death, hath wrought my joy,

My friends, my foil, my foes, my weal procured, My
speedy death bath shortened long annoy,
And loss of life an endless life assured.

My scaffold was the bed where ease 1 found,

The block a pillow of eternal rest.
My headman cast me in in blissful swoon,
His axe cut off my cares from cumbered breast.

A watercolour of Mary's execution, c.1613. Scottish National Portrait Gallery

The Protestant Nation and the Catholic Threat:
Queen Elizabeth I, "Song on the Armada Victory" (1588)

A song made by her majesty and sung before her at her coming from
Whitehall to Paul's through Fleet Street in Anno Donzini 1588

Sung in December after the scattering of the Spanish Navy.

Look and bow down Thine ear, 0 Lord.

From Thy bright sphere behold and see
Thy handmaid and Thy handiwork
Amongst Thy priests, offering to Thee,
Zeal for incense, reaching the skies,
Myself and scepter, sacrifice.

My soul, ascend His holy place. L -

Ascribe Him strength and sing him praise,
• ,i,:ez1;2_
11, i!?••:: • L:

For He refraineth princes' sprites -

And hath done wonders in my days.

He made the winds and waters rise .1 • •
1.0 . i. I
k• .1.6111."1
To scatter all mine enemies — ••
-
,6?:'1 ' r'•• , 9
'... • '- : :.:4,.,: : l e

r
• '-: '..'?•,44, g, '411)42::.11. .'-9,14;cni'. ..i'',..•#11..-

This Joseph's Lord and Israel's God, k„,.,,,._r:„bf .61w,.:7.r..

The fiery pillar and day's cloud, That

_• _ :.: ,..p...T,_ .. pmif.:Ar.. itr,zr
...., ._
_..175-
_ -.14 -

saved his saints from wicked men And • .- -

. -
_ -
..-
-
l=r
•
- =
..-
--■-•
S
_.,4.. ' . " -Tjala :-: . . :-7 11 :•
9...

drenched the honor of the proud; And _-.. ,.= 1--..- -■.1 .■- - - _ _ "...= _,- ___ . _. .
- - - • ■- - .. - . _.- = -=' _ ..e. ..
-. - -- -- -.09. -.- -. - - - . -.• -.- -.7:-.
- _ - -I. - - -•, - -_.= -_. -_• -••- _.!-..1-......._ =- -• -

hath preserved in tender love

=. - , - , __ - _ .._ _.=,_ - • -• • -=_' _, - --. • -.. - l!'7 ■ ■•
-= - - • _._ .m- ..= -.m. -_ ..-..-1- _ . ---=- -....m7_. J ■7 1 . • . , , . , . =- 7 '
.1..T •
=. ■ _= 1. =: ....................■ .M. ••• ..'.•=1.
„ = =_=1 . . _ =I■ 1 : =1 ,■• •== 1.1.

The spirit of his turtle dove. 'fjl : • ini,Invtlie Aivriail i l: 88 • F. ! • .

A Thankful Remembrance afGod's Mercy (1588)

Renaissance Literature: An Anthology. Ed M. Payne and J. Hunter. Oxford:
Blackwell, 2003.
Paul van Somer (C. 1576-1621)
James VI & I (1566-1625) c. 1620
Windsor Castle
The doctrine of divine right of kings:
James I & VI, Basilikon Doron (1599)

BASILIKON DORON.
ox,
HIS MAIESTIES INTRVCTIONS

TO HIS

DEAREST SONNE, HENRY THE PRINCE

THE ARGTMENT

SONNET.

GOD gives not Kings the stile of Gods in vaine, For

on his throne his scepter doe they swey:
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So Kings should feare and serve their God again. If
then ye would enioy a happie raigne,

litC5RIVIOR Observe the Statutes of your heavenly King, And

PRI 1.NTED BY Rte, . from his Law, make all your Lawes to spring: Since
hartPFAUPgrisr—i his Lieutenant here ye should remain,
calroTlwrair Reward the just, be steadfast, true, and plain,
PL4Eir. Represse the proud, rnaintayning aye the right, Walk
alwayes so, as ever in his sight,
Who guards the godly, plaguing the prophane:
And so ye shall in Princely vertues shine,
Resembling right your mightie King Divine.

The Political Works ofJ ames I. Ed. Charles H. Menu-aim Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1918.
The Civil War:
Richard Lovelace. "To Althea. From Prison" (1642):

I
When Love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates:
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye;
The gods that wanton in the air,
Know no such Liberty.
II
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.
III
When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my KingING;
When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be;
Enlarged winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
lV
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
.4tv .diutius eriton t irate. run t , nem', tam Minds innocent and quiet take
fart?tei- reliqutt Ta z I _L ib . 2 .0
That for an hermitage;
If I have free dome in my love,
Charles I. Line engraving by Robert White (late 17'11c). And in my soul am free;
The National Portrait Gallery Angels alone that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

Seketed poems gfRiehai. I Lovelace. Ed. G. Hammond. Manchester: Carcanet, 1987.

The Coronation procession of Charles II through London
Wenceslaus Hollar, Royal Collection (1661)
 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

"Regime de Vivre"

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,

I get drunk before seven, and the next thing I do, I
send for my whore, when for fear of a clap, I spend
in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
5 Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront, At
once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
10 What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage.
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning tilt eleven again.

ifif a //L.
Baron IV /mot 1.1:-K-ilizny-
rn

wlandA il/count- ihnot M

in7.re1and. %Div,/ olne
2c. Paddy Lyons, ed. Rochester: Complete Poems and Plays. London: Dent, 1993.
The Exclusion Crisis (1679-81):
Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. "My Opinion" (c. 1681)

After thinking this fortnight of Whig and of Tory,

This to me is the long and the short of the story:
They are all fools and knaves, and they keep up this pother On
both sides, designing to cheat one another.

Poor Rowley, whose maxims of state are a riddle, Has

plac'd himself much like the pin in the middle; Let
which corner soever be tumbl'd down first, `Tis ten
thousand to one but he comes by the worst.

`Twixt brother and bastard, those Dukes of renown,

He'll make a wise shift to get rid of his crown;
Had he half common sense, were it ne'er so uncivil,
He's have had 'em long since tippid down to the Devil.

The first is a Prince well fashion'd, well featur'd.

No bigort to speak of, not false nor ill-natued; The
other for government can't be unfit,
He's so little a fop and so plaguy a wit.

Had I this soft son and this dangerous brother, I'd

hang up the one and I'd piss on the other;
Id make this the long and the short of the story: Kine Charles's Arrival at Oxford. Cassell's History of England Vol, 111
The fools might be Whigs, none but knaves should be Tories.

B. Harris. ed. The Poems of Charles Sackville, 6th Earl of Dorset.

New York: Garland, 1979.