[ p.1 ] (image of first page of poems.)
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THE
POEMS
OF
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY'S RECREATIONS.
UIVERING Fears, heart-tearing Cares,
Anxious Sighs, untimely Tears,
Fly, fly to courts;
Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
Where strain'd Sardonic smiles are glosing still,
And Grief is forc'd to laugh against her will;
Where mirth's but mummery;
And sorrows only real be!
Fly from our country pastimes! fly,
Sad troop of human misery;
Come serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Or the pure azur'd heaven, that smiles to see
The rich attendance of our poverty.
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Peace and a secure mind,
Which all men seek, we only finp [printer's error.]
Abused mortals! did you know
Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow;
You'd scorn proud towers,
And seek them in these bowers,
Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,
But blustering Care could never tempest make,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
Saving of fountains that glide by us.
Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance,
But of our kids, that frisk and prance:
Nor wars are seen,
Unless upon the green
Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,
Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother;
And wounds are never found,
Save what the plough-share gives the ground.
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Here are no false entrapping baits,
To hasten too too hasty fates;
Unless it be
The fond credulity
Of silly fish, which worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook:
Nor envy, unless among
The birds, for prize of their sweet song.
Go! let the diving negro seek
For gems hid in some forlorn creek;
We all pearls scorn,
Save what the dewy morn
Congeals upon each little spire of grass,
Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;
And gold ne'er here appears,
Save what the yellow Ceres bears.
Blest silent groves! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery!
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May pure contents
For ever pitch their tents
Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these
mountains,
And Peace still slumber by these purling fountains !
Which we may every year
Find when we come a fishing here!
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DISPRAISE OF LOVE, AND LOVER'S FOLLIES.
F love be life, I long to die,
Live they that list for me:
And he that gains the most thereby,
A fool at least shall be.
But he that feels the sorest fits,
'Scapes with no less than loss of wits.
Unhappy life they gain,
Which love do entertain.
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In day by fained looks they live,
By lying dreams in night;
Each frown a deadly wound doth give,
Each smile a false delight.
If't hap their lady pleasant seem,
It is for other's love they deem:
If void she seem of joy,
Disdain doth make her coy.
Such is the peace that lovers find,
Such is the life they lead,
Blown here and there with every wind,
Like flowers in the mead.
Now war, now peace, now war again,
Desire, despair, delight, disdain,
Though dead in midst of life,
In peace and yet at strife.
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ON THE SNUFF OF A CANDLE.
THE NIGHT BEFORE HE DIED.
OWARDS fear to die; but Courage stout,
Rather than live in Snuff, will be put out.
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Imitatio Horatianæ Odes IX.—Donec gratus eram tibi. Lib. 3.
A DIALOGUE BETWIXT GOD AND THE SOUL.
SOUL.
HILST my Soul's eye beheld no light
But what stream'd from thy gracious sight,
To me the world's greatest king,
Seem'd but a little vulgar thing.
GOD.
Whilst thou prov'dst pure; and that in thee
I could glass all my Deity,
How glad did I from Heaven depart,
To find a lodging in thy heart !
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SOUL.
Now Fame and Greatness bear the sway,
('Tis they that hold my prison's key,)
For whom my soul would die, might she
Leave them her immortality!
GOD.
I, and some few pure souls conspire,
And burn both in a mutual fire;
For whom I'd die once more, e'er they
Should miss of Heaven's eternal day.
SOUL.
But, Lord! what if I turn again,
And with an adamantine chain,
Lock me to thee? What if I chase
The world away to give thee place?
GOD.
Then though these souls, in whom I joy,
Are Seraphims, thou but a toy,
A foolish toy, yet once more I
Would with thee live, and for thee die!
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PHILLIDA'S LOVE-CALL TO HER CORIDON,
AND HIS REPLYING.
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Phil. |
ORIDON, arise my Coridon;
Titan shineth clear. |
Cor. |
Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it that I hear? |
Phil. |
Phillida, thy true love, calleth thee;
Arise then, arise then;
Arise, and keep thy flock with me |
Cor. |
Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,
I come and keep my flock with thee! |
Phil. |
Here are cherries ripe for my Coridon;
Eat them for my sake. |
Cor. |
Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make |
Phil. |
Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,
To knit thee, to knit thee
A pair of stockings white as milk.
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Cor. |
Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,
To make thee, to make thee,
A bonnet, to withstand the heat. |
Phil. |
I will gather flowers, my Coridon,
To set in thy cap. |
Cor. |
I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap. |
Phil. |
I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about his legs so tall. |
Cor. |
I will buy my true love yellow say,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about her middle small. |
Phil. |
When my Coridon sits on a hill
Making melody: |
Cor. |
When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cherily: |
Phil. |
Sure methinks my true love doth excel
For sweetness, for sweetness,
Our Pan that old Arcadian knight:
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Cor. |
And methinks my true love bears the bell
For clearness, for clearness,
Beyond the nymphs that be so bright. |
Phil. |
Had my Coridon, my Coridon,
Been, alack, my swain: |
Cor. |
Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain: |
Phil. |
Cynthia Endymion had refus'd,
Preferring, preferring,
My Coridon to play with-all: |
Cor. |
The queen of love had been excus'd
Bequeathing, bequeathing,
My Phillida the golden ball. |
Phil. |
Yonder comes my mother, Coridon!
Whither shall I fly? |
Cor. |
Under yonder beech, my lovely one,
While she passeth by. |
Phil. |
Say to her thy true love was not here:
Remember, remember,
To-morrow is another day!
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Cor. |
Doubt me not, my true love; do not fear;
Farewell then, farewell then;
Heaven keep our loves alway!
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SIR WALTER RALEIGH THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DEATH.a
VEN such is Time, thatb takes onc trust
Our youth, our joys, ourd all we have,
eAnd pays us but with age and dust;
Whof in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
gBut from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My Godh shall raise me up, I trust!
a Verses said to have been found in his Bible in the Gate-house, at Westminster.
Dr. Birch's Edition runs thus:
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b Which. |
c In. |
d And. |
e And pays us nought but age and dust. |
f Which. |
g And from which grave, and earth, and dust. |
h The Lord. |
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THE SHEPHERD'S SLUMBER
N Pescod time, when hound to horn
Gives ear till buck be kill'd,
And little lads with pipes of corn
Sate keeping beasts a-field,
I went to gather strawberries tho',
By woods and groves full fair:
And parch'd my face with Phœbus so,
In walking in the air,
That down I laid me by stream,
With boughs all over clad:
And there I met the strangest dream,
That ever Shepherd had.
Methought I saw each Christmas game,
Each revel all and some;
And every thing that I can name,
Or may in fancy come.
The substance of the sights I saw,
In silence pass they shall;
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Because I lack the skill to draw
The order of them all;
But Venus shall not pass my pen,
Whose maidens in disdain
Did feed upon the hearts of men,
That Cupid's bow had slain.
And that blind boy was all in blood
Be-bath'd up to the ears:
And like a conqueror he stood,
And scorned lovers' tears.
"I have," quoth he, "more hearts at call,
Than Cæsar could command,
And like the deer I make them fall,
That runneth o'er the lawnd.a
One drops down here, another there,
In bushes as they groan;
I bend a scornful careless ear,
To hear them make their moan."
a For "lawn."
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"Ah, Sir!" quoth Honest Meaning then,
"Thy boy-like brags I hear,
When thou hast wounded many a man,
As huntsman doth the deer.
Becomes it thee to triumph so?
Thy mother wills it not:
For she had rather break thy bow,
Than thou should'st play the sot."
"What saucy merchant speaketh now?"
Said Venus in her rage:
"Art thou so blind thou knowest not how
I govern every age?
My son doth shoot no shaft in waste;
To me the boy is bound:
He never found a heart so chaste,
But he had power to wound."
"Not so, fair goddess," quoth Free-will:
"In me there is a choice:
And cause I am of mine own ill,
If I in thee rejoice.
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And when I yield myself a slave,
To thee, or to thy son,
Such recompence I ought not have,
If things be rightly done."
"Why fool," stept forth Delight, and said,
"When thou art conquer'd thus:
Then loe dame Lust, that wanton maid,
Thy mistress is, I wis.
And Lust is Cupid's darling dear,
Behold her where she goes:
She creeps the milk-warm flesh so near,
She hides her under close,
Where many privy thoughts do dwell,
A heaven here on earth:
For they have never mind of hell,
They think so much on mirth."
"Be still, Good Meaning," quoth Good Sport,
"Let Cupid triumph make:
For sure his kingdom shall be short,
If we no pleasure take.
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Fair Beauty, and her play-fairs gay,
The virgin's Vestals too,
Shall sit, and with their fingers play,
As idle people do.
If Honest Meaning fall to frown,
And I Good Sport decay:
Then Venus' glory will come down,
And they will pine away."
"Indeed," quoth Wit, "this your device,
With strangeness must be wrought:
And where you see these women nice,
And looking to be sought,
With scowling brows their follies check,
And so give them the fig.
Let Fancy be no more at beck,
When Beauty looks so big."
When Venus heard how they conspir'd
To murder women so,
Methought, indeed, the house was fir'd,
With storms and lightning tho'.
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The thunder-bolt through windows burst,
And in there steps a wight;
Which seemed some soul or sprite accurst,
So ugly was the sight!
"I charge you. ladies all," quoth he,
"Look to yourselves in haste,
For if that men so wilful be,
And have their thoughts so chaste,
That they can tread on Cupid's breast,
And march on Venus' face:
Then they shall sleep in quiet rest,
When you shall wail your case."
With that had Venus, all in spite,
Stir'd up the dames to ire;
And Lust fell cold, and Beauty white,
Sat babbling with Desire.
Whose muttering words I might not mark;
Much whispering there arose:
The day did lower, the sun wax'd dark;
Away each lady goes.
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But whither went this angry flock?
Our Lord himself doth know:
Wherewith full loudly crew the cock,
And I awaked so.
"A dream!" quoth I, a dog it is,
"I take thereon no keep:
I gage my head, such toys as this
Doth spring from lack of sleep!"
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DE MORTE
AN'S life's a Tragedy: his mother's womb,
From which he enters, is the tiring room;
This spacious earth the Theatre; and the Stage
That country which he lives in: Passions, Rage,
Folly, and Vice are Actors: the first cry
The Prologue to the ensuing Tragedy.
The former act consisteth of dumb shows;
The second, he to more perfection grows;
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I'th third he is a man, and doth begin
To nurture vice, and act the deeds of sin:
I'th the fourth declines; i'th fifth diseases clog
And trouble him; then Death's his Epilogue!
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A NYMPH'S DISDAIN OF LOVE.
EY, down, a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting:
Than love there is no vainer thing,
For maidens most unfitting:
And so think I, with a down, down, derry.
When women knew no woe,
But liv'd themselves to please,
Men's faining guiles they did not know
The ground of their disease.
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Unborn was false Suspect,
No thought of jealousy:
From wanton toys and fond affect,
The virgin's life was free.
Hey, down, a down, did Dian sing, &c.
At length men used charms,
To which what maids gave ear,
Embracing gladly endless harms,
Anon enthralled were.
Thus women welcom'd woe,
Disguis'd in name of love:
A jealous hell, a painted show,
So shall they find that prove.
Hey, down, a down, did Dian sing,
Amongst her virgins sitting:
Than love there is no vainer thing,
For maidens most unfitting:
And so think I, with a down, down, derry.
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THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE.
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Melibeus |
HEPHERD, what's Love, I pray thee
tell ? |
Faustus. |
It is that fountain, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell:
It is, perhaps, that sauncinga bell,
That tolls all into heaven or hell:
And this is Love, as I heard tell. |
Meli. |
Yet what is Love, I prithee say? |
Faust. |
It is a work on holy-day,
It is December match'd with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play:
And this is Love, as I hear say. |
Meli. |
Yet what is Love, good Shepherd sain? |
Faust. |
It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;
It is a tooth-ach; or like pain;
It is a game, where none doth gain.
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a For "sounding."
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The lass saith no, and would full fain:
And [this] is Love, as I hear sain. |
Meli. |
Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, I pray? |
Faustus. |
It is a yea, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray,
It is a thing will soon away;
Then Nymphs take 'vantage while ye may;
And this is Love, as I hear say. |
Meli. |
Yet what is Love, good Shepherd show? |
Faustus. |
A thing that creeps, it cannot go;
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for one, a thing for mo,
And he that proves shall find it so,
And Shepherd this is Love I trow.
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HYMN.
ISE, Oh my Soul, with thy desires to Heaven,
And with Divinest contemplation, use
Thy time, where Time's eternity is given,
And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse;
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But down in darkness let them lie:
So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die!
And thou, my Soul, inspir'd with holy flame,
View and review with most regardful eye
That holy Cross, whence thy salvation came,
On which thy Saviour, and thy sin did die!
For in that sacred object is much pleasure,
And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure.
To thee, O Jesu! I direct my eye,
To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees;
To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice,
To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees:
To thee myself, myself and all I give;
To thee I die, to thee I only live!
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SONG.
BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.
OME, live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That grove or valley, hill or field,
Or wood and steepy mountain yield.
Where we will sit on rising rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
Pleas'd will I make thee beds of roses,
And twine a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and rural kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of mirtle.
A jaunty gown of finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
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And shoes lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps, and amber studs;
If these, these pleasures can thee move,
To live with me, and be my love!
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THE ANSWER.a
BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
F all the world and Love were young,
And truth on every Shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
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a This poem is printed thus in "England's Helicon."
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD.
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IF all the world and Love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love. |
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Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
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But fading flowers in every field,
To winter floods their treasures yield;
A honey'd tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.
Thy gown, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Are all soon wither'd, broke, forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
Can me with no enticements move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
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The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In Folly ripe, in Reason rotten. |
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Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love.
But could Youth last, and Love still breed;
Had joys no date, nor Age no need;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
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But could Youth last, could Love still breed;
Had joys no date, had Age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
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ANOTHER OF THE SAME NATURE MADE SINCE.
OME, live with me, and be my dear,
And we will revel all the year,
In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
Where fragrant air breeds sweetest gales.
There shall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar and the spreading vine;
And all the woods to be a screen,
Lest Phœbus kiss my Summer's Queen.
The seat for your disport shall be
Over some river in a tree ;
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Where silver sand and pebbles sing
Eternal ditties with the Spring.
There shall you see the Nymphs at play;
And how the Satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.
The birds, with heavenly-tuned throats,
Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes;
Which to your senses will impart
A music to enflame the heart.
Upon the bare and leafless oak
The wring-dove's wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess,
To play with me and do no less.
In bowers of laurel trimly dight
We will outwear the silent night;
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While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all their sparkling lights shall spend,
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with most majesty.
Then in mine arms will I enclose
Lillies' fair mixture with the rose;
Whose nice perfections in Love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.
Thus as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.
If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to Love's paradise,
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Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will straight begin the year.
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AN HEROICAL POEM.
Y wanton Muse, that whilom wont to sing
Fair Beauty's praise and Venus' sweet delight,
Of late had chang'd the tenor of her string
To higher tunes that serve for Cupid's fight.
Shrill trumpets sound, sharp swords and lances strong,
War, blood, and death, were matter of her song.
The God of Love by chance had heard thereof,
That I was prov'd a rebel to his crown;
"Fit words for war," quoth he, with angry scoff,
"A likely man to write of Mars his frown.
Well are they sped whose praises he shall write,
Whose wanton pen can nought but love indite."
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This said, he whisk'd his party-colour'd wings,
And down to earth he comes more swift than thought;
Then to my heart in angry haste he flings,
To see what change these news of wars had wrought.
He pries, and looks; he ransacks ev'ry vein;
Yet finds he nought, save love and lover's pain.
Then I, that now perceiv'd his needless fear,
With heavy smile began to plead my cause:
"In vain," quoth I, "this endless grief I bear;
In vain I strive to keep thy grievous laws:
If after proof, so often trusty found,
Unjust Suspect condemn me as unsound.
Is this the guerdon of my faithful heart?
Is this the hope on which my life is staid?
Is this the ease of never-ceasing smart?
Is this the price that for my pains is paid?
Yet better serve fierce Mars in bloody field,
Where death, or conquest, end or joy doth yield !
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Long have I serv'd: what is my pay but pain?
Oft have I su'd: what gain I but delay?
My faithful love is 'quited with disdain;
My grief a game, my pen is made a play;
Yea, Love that doth in other favour find,
In me is counted madness out of kind.
And last of all, but grievous most of all,
Thyself, sweet Love, hath kill'd me with suspect:
Could Love believe, that I from love would fall?
Is war of force to make me love neglect?
No, Cupid knows, my mind is faster set,
Than that by war I should my love forget.
My Muse, indeed, to war inclines her mind;
The famous acts of worthy Brute to write:
To whom the gods this island's rule assign'd,
Which long he sought by seas through Neptune's spight.
With such conceits my busy head doth swell;
But in my heart nought else but Love doth dwell.
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And in this war thy part is not the least:
Here shall my Muse Brute's noble love declare;
Here shalt thou see thy double love increas'd,
Of fairest twins that ever Lady bare.
Let Mars triumph in armour shining bright,
His conquer'd arms shall be thy triumph's light.
As he the world, so thou shalt him subdue,
And I thy glory through the world will ring;
So by my pains, thou wilt vouchsafe to rue,
And kill despair. With that he wisk'd his wing,
And bid me write, and promis'd wished rest,
But sore I fear, false hope will be the best.
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THE SHEPHERD TO THE FLOWERS.
WEET violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched bear
Within your paly faces,
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Upon the gentle wing of some calm breathing wind,
That plays amidst the plain,
If by the favour of propitious stars you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find,
Be proud to touch those places!
And when her warmth your moisture forth doth wear,
Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed,
Your honours of the flowery meads I pray,
You pretty daughters of the earth and sun,
With mild and seemly breathing straight display
My bitter sighs, that have my heart undone!
Vermilion roses, that with new days rise,
Display your crimson folds fresh looking fair,
Whose radiant bright disgraces
The rich adorn'd rays of roseate rising morn!
Ah, if her virgin's hand
Do pluck your purse, ere Phœbus view the land,
And veil your gracious pomp in lovely Nature's scorn,
If chance my mistress traces
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Fast by the flowers to take the Summer's air,
Then woeful blushing tempt her glorious eyes
To spread their tears, Adonis' death reporting,
And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend,
Whose drops of blood, within your leaves consorting,
Report fair Venus' moans to have no end!
Then may Remorse, in pitying of my smart,
Dry up my tears, and dwell within her heart!
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UPON GASCOIGNE'S POEM, CALLED "THE STEEL-GLASS."
WEET were the sauce would please each kind
of taste;
The life likewise was pure that never swerv'd;
For spiteful tongues, in canker'd stomachs plac'd,
Deem worst of things, which best percase deserv'd.
But what for that? this medicine may suffice
To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.
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Though sundry minds in sundry sort do deem,
Yet worthiest wights yield praise for every pain;
But envious brains do nought (or light) esteem
Such stately steps as they cannot attain:
For whoso reaps renown above the rest,
With heaps of hate shall surely be opprest.
Wherefore, to write my censure of this book,
This "Glass of Steel" impartially doth shew,
Abuses all to such as in it look,
From prince to poor; from high estate to low.
As for the verse, who list like trade to try,
I fear me much shall hardly reach so high!
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THIRSIS THE SHEPHERD, TO HIS PIPE.
IKE desert woods, with darksome shades obscured,
Where dreadful beasts, where hateful horror
reigneth,
Such is my wounded heart, whom Sorrow paineth.
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/ p.37 / |
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The trees are fatal shafts to death inured,
That cruel love within my breast maintaineth,
To whet my grief, when as my sorrow waineth.
The ghastly beasts my thoughts in cares assures,
Which wage me war, while heart no succour gaineth,
With false Suspect, and Fear that still remaineth.
The horrors, burning sighs, by cares procured,
Which forth I send, whilst weeping eye complaineth,
To cool the heat, the helpless heart containeth.
But shafts, but cares, but sighs, honours unrecured,
Were nought esteem'd, if for these pains awarded,
My faithful love by her might be regarded.
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/ p.38 / |
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LOVE THE ONLY PRICE OF LOVE.
HE fairest pearls, that northern seas do breed,
For precious stones from eastern coasts are
sold;
Nought yields the earth that from exchange is freed;
Gold values all, and all things value gold.
Where Goodness wants an equal change to make,
There Greatness serves, or number place doth take.
No mortal thing can bear so high a price,
But that with mortal thing it may be bought;
The corn of Sicil buys the western spice;
French wine of us, of them our cloth is sought.
No pearls, no gold, no stones, no corn, no spice,
No cloth, no wine, of Love can pay the price.
What thing is Love, which nought can countervail?
Nought save itself, ev'n such a thing is Love.
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/ p.39 / |
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All wordly wealth in worth as far doth fail,
As lowest earth doth yield to heav'n above.
Divine is Love, and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing, but with self.
Such is the price my loving heart would pay,
Such is the pay thy love doth claim as due.
Thy due is Love, which I (poor I) essay,
In vain essay to quite with friendship true:
True is my Love, and true shall ever be,
And truest Love is far too base for thee.
Love but thyself, and love thyself alone;
For save thyself, none can thy Love requite:
All mine thou hast, but all as good as none;
My small desert must take a lower flight.
Yet if thou wilt vouchsafe my heart such bliss,
Accept it for thy prisoner as it is.
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/ p.40 / |
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THE SHEPHERD'S PRAISE OF HIS SACRED DIANA.
RAIS'D be Diana's fair and harmless light;
Prais'd be the dews, wherewith she moists the
ground:
Prais'd be her beams, the glory of the night;
Prais'd be her power, by which all powers abound!
Prais'd be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods;
Prais'd be her knights, in whom true honour lives;
Prais'd be that force by which she moves the floods!
Let that Diana shine, which all these gives!
In heaven Queen she is among the spheres;
She mistress-like makes all things to be pure;
Eternity in her oft-change she bears;
She Beauty is; by her the fair endure.
Time wears her not; she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is plac'd;
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/ p.41 / |
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By her the virtues of the stars down slide;
In her is Virtue's perfect image cast!
A knowledge pure it is her worth to know:
With Circes let them dwell that think not so!
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THE SILENT LOVER.
ASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams;
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come:
They that are rich in words must needs discover,
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart!
The merit of true passion,
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/ p.42 / |
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With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion!
Since, if my plaints were not t'approve
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t'exceed my duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,
I rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair disdains the healing!
Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,
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/ p.43 / |
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When Reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.
Yet when Discretion doth bereave
The plaints that I should utter,
Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a Suitor.
Silence in Love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity!a
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion!
a This stanza was, by some strange anachronism, current about fifty years ago among the circles of fashion, as the production of the late celebrated Earl of Chesterfield.
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/ p.44 / |
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A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN
ETHOUGHT I saw the grave, where Laura lay,
Within that temple, where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept:
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen;
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not seen;
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd the access of that celestial thief!
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/ p.45 / |
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ON THE SAME
HE praise of meaner wits this work like profit
brings,
As doth the cuckoo's song delight, when Philomela sings;
If thou hast formed right true Virtue's face herein,
Virtue herself can best discern, to whom they written
been.
If thou hast Beauty prais'd, let her sole looks divine,
Judge if ought therein be amiss, and mend it by her
eyne.
If Chastity want ought, or Temperance her due,
Behold her princely mind aright, and write thy Queen
anew.
Meanwhile she shall perceive, how far her virtues soar
Above the reach of all that live, or such as wrote of
yore:
And thereby will excuse and favour thy good will;
Whose virtue cannot be express'd, but by an Angel's quill.
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/ p.46 / |
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Of me no lines are lov'd, nor letters are of price,
Of all which speak our English tongue, but those of
thy device.
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THE LOVER'S ABSENCE KILLS ME,
HER PRESENCE KILLS ME.
HE frozen snake oppress'd with heaped snow,
By struggling hard gets out her tender head,
And spies far off, from where she lies below,
The winter sun that from the north is fled.
But all in vain she looks upon the light,
Where heat is wanting to restore her might.
What doth it help a wretch in prison pent,
Long time with biting hunger overpress'd,
To see without, or smell within, the scent
Of dainty fare for others' tables dress'd?
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/ p.47 / |
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Yet snake and prisoner both behold the thing,
The which (but not with sight) might comfort bring.
Such is my taste, or worse, if worse may be;
My heart oppress'd with heavy frost of care,
Debar'd of that which is most dear to me,
Kill'd up with cold, and pin'd with evil fare;
And yet I see the thing might yield relief,
And yet the sight doth breed my greater grief.
So Thisbe saw her lover through the wall,
And saw thereby she wanted that she saw:
And so I see, and seeing want withall,
And wanting so, unto my death I draw.
And so my death were twenty times my friend,
If with this verse my hated life might end.
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/ p.48 / |
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A DEFIANCE TO DISDAINFUL LOVE.
OW have I learn'd, with much ado at last,
By true disdain to kill Desire;
This was the mark at which I shot so fast;
Unto this height I did aspire.
Proud Love, now do thy worst, and spare not;
For thee and all thy shafts I care not!
What hast thou left wherewith to move my mind?
What life to quicken dead Desire?
I count thy words and oaths as light as wind;
I feel no heat in all thy fire.
Go charge thy bows, and get a stronger;
Go break thy shafts, and buy thee longer.
In vain thou bait'st thy hook with Beauty's blaze;
In vain thy wanton eyes allure:
These are but toys, for them that love to gaze:
I know what harm thy looks procure:
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/ p.49 / |
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Some strange conceit must be devised,
Or thou and all thy skill despised.
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The two following Poems are taken from CAYLEY'S LIFE OF RALEIGH;
but I know not from which of the Authorities referred to
by him, they are extracted.
DULCINA.
S at noon Dulcina rested
In her sweet and shady bower,
Came a Shepherd, and requested
In her lap to sleep an hour.
But from her look
A wound he took
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/ p.50 / |
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So deep, that for a farther boon
The nymph he prays;
Whereto she says,
"Forego me now, come to me soon!"
But in vain she did conjure him
To depart her presence so,
Having a thousand tongue t'allure him,
And but one to bid him go.
When lips invite,
And eyes delight,
And cheeks, as fresh as rose in June,
Persuade delay,
What boots to say,
"Forego me now, come to me soon!"
He demands, what time for pleasure
Can there be more fit than now?
She says, Night gives Love that leisure
Which the day doth not allow.
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/ p.51 / |
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He says, the sight
Improves delight;
Which she denies; "Night's murky noon
In Venus' plays
Makes bold," she says,
"Forego me now, come to me soon!"
But what promise, or profession,
From his hands could purchase scope?
Who would sell the sweet possession
Of such beauty for a hope?
Or for the sight
Of lingering night,
Forego the present joys of noon?
Tho' ne'er so fair
Her speeches were,
"Forego me now, come to me soon!"
How at last agreed these lovers?
She was fair, and he was young:
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/ p.52 / |
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The tongue may tell what th' eye discovers;
Joys unseen are never sung.
Did she consent,
Or he relent?
Accepts he night, or grants she noon?
Left he her maid,
Or not? she said,
"Forego me now, come to me soon!"
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HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL.
HALL I, like a hermit, dwell,
On a rock, or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
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/ p.53 / |
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If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel gold,
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too?
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?
Were her band as rich a prize
As her hairs, or precious eyes,
If she lay them out to take
Kisses, for good manners' sake:
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be?
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/ p.54 / |
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No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show;
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot,
Then, if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be!
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HIS PILGRIMAGE.a
IVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of Faith to walk upon;
My scrip of joy, immortal diet;
My bottle of salvation;
a This is an extraordinary poem; a mixture of sublime ideas and sentiments, with quaint and degrading images. It is said to have been written in the short interval between his sentence and execution. |
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/ p.55 / |
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My gown of glory, (Hope's true gage)
And thus I'll take my Pilgrimage.
Blood must be my Body's only balmer,
Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven:
No other balm will there be given.
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains,
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My Soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
I'll take them first,
To quench my thirst,
And taste of nectars suckets,
At those clear wells
Where Sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
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/ p.56 / |
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Then by that happy blissful day,
More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparell'd fresh like me;
And when our bodies and all we
Are fill'd with immortality,
Then the blessed parts we'll travel
Strow'd with rubies thick as gravel;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire flowers,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
No forg'd accuser bought or sold,
No cause deferr'd, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the King's attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
And when the twelve grand million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
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/ p.57 / |
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'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my Speaker, [taintless Pleader,
Unblotted Lawyer, true Proceeder,]
Thou would'st salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea,
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,
To tread those bless'd paths which before I writ!
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well!
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[ p.58 ] (image of page 58) |
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THE FAREWELL.a
O, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give them all the lie.
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a The following poem has been given as written by
SIR WALTER RALEIGH, the night before his execution; but it had already appeared in "Davison's Rhapsody," in 1608; and is also to be found in a MS. collection of Poems in the British Museum, which has the date of 1596.
Whoever was the author, it is a poem of uncommon beauty and merit, and glowing with all that moral pathos, which is one of the first charms in the compositions of genius.
It is printed thus in "Davison's Poetical Rhapsody."
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THE LIE.
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Go, Soul, the Body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the Court it glows,
And shines like rotten wood,
Say to the Church it shows |
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What's good, and doth no good.
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell Potentates, they live
Acting, by others' action;
Not lov'd, unless they give;
Nor strong, but by affection.
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.
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/ p.59 / |
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Go, tell the Court it glows,
And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good, but does no good.
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Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition;
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Like nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell Zeal it wants devotion;
Tell Love it is but lust;
Tell Time it meets but motion;
Tell Flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth;
Tell Honour how it alters;
Tell Beauty how she blasteth;
Tell Favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
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Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell Physic of her boldness;
Tell Skill it is prevention;
Tell Charity of coldness;
Tell Law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell Fortune of her blindness;
Tell Nature of decay;
Tell Friendship of unkindness;
Tell Justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell Schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.
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/ p.60 / |
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If Court and Church reply,
Give Court and Church the lie.
Tell Potentates, they live
Acting, but Oh! their actions
Not lov'd, unless they give;
Nor strong, but by their factions.
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition;
Their practice only hate.
And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie.
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Tell Faith it's fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell Manhood, shakes off pity;
Tell Virtue, least preferred.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
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So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Because to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing:
Stab at thee, he that will,
No stab thy soul can kill !
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/ p.61 / |
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Tell those that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;
Tell Love it is but lust;
Tell Time it is but motion;
Tell Flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth;
Tell Honour how it alters;
Tell Beauty that it blasteth;
Tell Favour that she falters:
And as they do reply,
Give every one the lie.
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/ p.62 / |
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Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In fickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And if they do reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell Physic of her boldness;
Tell Skill it is pretension;
Tell Charity of coldness;
Tell Law it is contention:
And if they yield reply,
Then give them still the lie.
Tell Fortune of her blindness;
Tell Nature of decay;
Tell Friendship of unkindness;
Tell Justice of delay:
And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie.
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/ p.63 / |
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Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell Schools they lack profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.
Tell Faith it's fled the city;
Tell how the Country erreth;
Tell Manhood, shakes off pity;
Tell Virtue, least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing;
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the Soul can kill !
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