A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIT OF THE FAIRY QUEEN. [Appended to Spenser's Faery Queen.] Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, REPLY TO MARLOWE'S 'THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE! If all the world and love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 1 See p. 418. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,-- Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, But could youth last, and love still breed; THE LIE. Go, Soul, the body's guest, 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 What's good, and doth no good: If court and church reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action; Not strong but by a faction! If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. ■ errand. Tell men of high condition, Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending: Tell zeal it wants devotion; 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. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Herself in over-wiseness: Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention: And as they do reply, Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell justice of delay: Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing,Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing, Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill. HIS PILGRIMAGE. Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given, Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains: The bowl of bliss ; And drink mine everlasting fill My soul will be a-dry before; Then by that happy blissful day, To quench their thirst And taste of nectar suckets, At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal ɔuckets, And when our bottles and al we Then the blessed paths we ll travel, No cause deferr'd, no vain-spent journey, Against our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads His death, and then we live. |