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If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

3 Tell potentates they live,
Acting by others' actions,
Not loved, unless they give,
Not strong, but by their factions;
If potentates reply,

Give potentates the lie.

4 Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

5 Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

6 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.

7 Tell Age it daily wasteth,

Tell Honour how it alters,
Tell Beauty how she blasteth,
Tell Favour how she falters;

And as they shall reply,

Give every one the lie.

8 Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In treble points of niceness,
Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness;
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

9 Tell Physic of her boldness,
Tell Skill it is pretension,

Tell Charity of coldness,
Tell Law it is contention;
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

10 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.

11 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.

12 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.

13 And 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.

SECOND PERIOD.

FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

THIS remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he passed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey.

After his death, his brother published a collection of his miscellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to London, and first appended to a play entitled 'Nice Valour,' are picturesque and interesting, as illustrating the period.

TO BEN JONSON.

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring
To absent friends, because the selfsame thing
They know, they see, however absent) is
Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this,

It is our country's style) in this warm shine
I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine.
Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees,
Drink apt to bring in drier heresies

Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain,
With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain,
So mix'd, that, given to the thirstiest one,
'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone.
I think, with one draught man's invention fades :
Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades.
'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit,

Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet;
Fill'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms,
Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms;
And so must I do this: And yet I think
It is a potion sent us down to drink,

By special Providence, keeps us from fights,
Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights.
"Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states,
A medicine to obey our magistrates:

For we do live more free than you; no hate,
No envy at one another's happy state,
Moves us; we are all equal: every whit
Of land that God gives men here is their wit,
If we consider fully, for our best

And gravest men will with his main house-jest
Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do
The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too:
Here are none that can bear a painted show,
Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow;
Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind,
Can make their gains alike with every wind;
Only some fellows with the subtlest pate,
Amongst us, may perchance equivocate

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