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O make me in those civil wars to cease!
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
L'velier than elsewł:ere Stella's image see.

Sir WALTER RALEIGH. 1552-1618.
For Extracts from his Prose Works, see next Chapter.

45. A PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

By Christopher Marlowe.
Come 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.

Pleased will I make thee beds of roses,
And twine a thousand fragrant posies;
A car : »f flowers and rural kirtle,
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A jaunty gown of finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
And shoes lined 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,
Come li-e with ine, and be iny love.

The NYMPH 3 REPLY TO THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERS.

By Sir Walter Raleigh.
If all the world and Love were young,
And truth on every Shepherd's tongue,
These pleasures might my passion mure
To live with thee, and be thy love.

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.

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.

THE SOUL's ERRAND.

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This beautiful poem appeared anonymously in “ Davison's Poetical Rhapsody

1608. It has been ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh by many able critics

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 them all the lie.

Go, tell the Court it glows,

And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows

What's good, but does no good.
If Court and Church reply,
Give Court and Church the lie.

Tell Potentates, they live

Acting, but oh! their actions
Not loved, 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 amtition;

Their practice only hate.
And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie.

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 Honor how it alters;
Tell Beauty that it blasteth;

Tell Favor that she falters •
And as they do reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit how much it wranglet

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.

Tell Arts they have no soundnes

But vary ły 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.

46. SAMUEL DANIEL. 1562–1619. (Mani al, p. 80.) RICHARD II. ON THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MIJRDER.

From the Third Book of the Civil Wars.
The morning of that lay which was his last
After a weary rest, rising to pain,
Out at a little grate his eyes he cast
Upon those bordering hills and open plain,
Where others' liberty makes him complain
The more his own, and grieves his soul the more,
Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor.

O happy man, saith he, that lo I see,
Grazir.g his cattle in those pleasant fields,
If he but knew his good. How blessed he
That feels not what affliction greatness yields !
Other than what he is he would not be,
Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields
Thine, thine is that true life: that is to live
To rest secure, and not rise up to gricve.

Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire,
And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none,
And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire,
Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan.

Comparing

Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire
Of iny restraint, why here I live alone,
And pitiest this my miserable fall;
For pity must have part — envy not all.

Thrice happy you chat look as from the shore,
And have no venture in the wreck you see;
No interest, no occasion to deplore
Other men's travels, while yourselves sit free.
How much doth your sweet rest inake us the more
To see our misery and what we be:
Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil,
Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil.

MICHAEL DRAYTON. 1563–1631. (Manual, pp. 80, 81.)

From the Nymphidia.
47. PIGWIGGEN ARMING.

And quickly arms him for the field,
A little cockle-shell his shield,
Which he could very bravely wield,

Yet could it not be pierced :
His spear a bent both stiff and strong,
And well near of two inches long:
The pile was of a horse-fly's tongue,

Whose sharpness nought reversed.

And puts him on a coat of mail,
Which was of a fish's scale,
That when his foe should him assail,

No point should be prevailing.
His rapier was a hornet's sting,
It was a very dangerous thing;
For if he chanc'd to hurt the king,

It would be long in healing.

His helmet was a beetle's head,
Most horrible and full of dread,
That able was to strike one dead,

Yet it did well become him:
And for a plume, a horse's hair,
Whicis being tossed by the air,
Had force to strike his foe with tear,

And turn his weapon from him.

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