o! Desire both lives and dies
A thousand times a day.

"Then, fond Desire, farewell!
Thou art no mate for me;
I should be loath, methinks, to dwell
With such a one as thee.

There is, in the less exalted way, the industrious man of all work,
Nicholas Breton, whom we shall speak of more at length among the
pamphleteers, and John Davies of Hereford, no poet certainly, but a most
industrious verse-writer in satiric and other forms. Mass of production,
and in some cases personal interest, gives these a certain standing above
their fellows. But the crowd of those fellows, about many of whom even the
painful industry of the modern commentator has been able to tell us next to
nothing, is almost miraculous when we remember that printing was still
carried on under a rigid censorship by a select body of monopolists, and
that out of London, and in rare cases the university towns, it was
impossible for a minor poet to get into print at all unless he trusted to
the contraband presses of the Continent. In dealing with this crowd of
enthusiastic poetical students it is impossible to mention all, and
invidious to single out some only. The very early and interesting _Posy of
Gillyflowers_ of Humphrey Gifford (1580) exhibits the first stage of our
period, and might almost have been referred to the period before it; the
same humpty-dumpty measure of eights and sixes, and the same vestiges of
rather infantine alliteration being apparent in it, though something of the
fire and variety of the new age of poetry appears beside them, notably in
this most spirited war-song:--

(_For Soldiers._)

"Ye buds of Brutus' land, courageous youths now play your parts,[28]
Unto your tackle stand, abide the brunt with valiant hearts,
For news is carried to and fro, that we must forth to warfare go:
Then muster now in every place, and soldiers are pressed forth apace.
Faint not, spend blood to do your Queen and country good:
Fair words, good pay, will make men cast all care away.

"The time of war is come, prepare your corslet, spear, and shield:
Methinks I hear the drum strike doleful marches to the field.
Tantara, tantara the trumpets sound, which makes our hearts with joy
abound.
The roaring guns are heard afar, and everything announceth war.
Serve God, stand stout; bold courage brings this gear about;
Fear not, forth run: faint heart fair lady never won.