A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud, That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath, Hell's children revel along the shuddering heath With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud: A worse fair face than witchcraft's, passion-proud, With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath And lips that bade the assassin's sword find sheath Deep in the heart whereto love's heart was vowed: A game of close contentious crafts and creeds Played till white England bring black Spain to shame: A son's bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds High conscience lights for mother's love and fame: Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds: Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name. X THOMAS HEYWOOD Tom, if they loved thee best who called thee Tom, What else may all men call thee, seeing thus bright Even yet the laughing and the weeping light That still thy kind old eyes are kindled from? Small care was thine to assail and overcome Time and his child Oblivion: yet of right Thy name has part with names of lordlier might For English love and homely sense of home, Whose fragrance keeps thy small sweet bayleaf young And gives it place aloft among thy peers Whence many a wreath once higher strong Time has hurled: And this thy praise is sweet on Shakespeare's tongue-- "O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world!" XI GEORGE CHAPMAN High priest of Homer, not elect in vain, Deep trumpets blow before thee, shawms behind Mix music with the rolling wheels that wind Slow through the labouring triumph of thy train: Fierce history, molten in thy forging brain, Takes form and fire and fashion from thy mind, Tormented and transmuted out of kind: But howsoe'er thou shift thy strenuous strain, Like Tailor[1] smooth, like Fisher[2] swollen, and now Grim Yarrington[3] scarce bloodier marked than thou, Then bluff as Mayne's[4] or broad-mouthed Barry's[5] glee; Proud still with hoar predominance of brow And beard like foam swept off the broad blown sea, Where'er thou go, men's reverence goes with thee. [1] Author of _The Hog hath lost his Pearl_. [2] Author of _Fuimus Troes, or the True Trojans_. [3] Author of _Two Tragedies in One_. [4] Author of _The City Match_. [5] Author of _Ram-Alley, or Merry Tricks_. XII JOHN MARSTON