THE MANY

Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers,

Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage:

Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of age

Took the mild chaplet woven of honoured hours:

Nash, laughing hard: Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers:

And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted cage

Fed by some gay great lady's pettish page

Till short sweet songs gush clear like short spring showers:

Kid, whose grim sport still gambolled over graves:

And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal verse

Weeps Marian yet on Robin's wildwood hearse:

Cooke, whose light boat of song one soft breath saves,

Sighed from a maiden's amorous mouth averse:

Live likewise ye: Time takes not you for slaves.