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Tell wit how much it wrangles,
In fickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness :

And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness,
Tell skill it is pretension,
Tell charity of coldness,

Tell law it is contention :

And if they do reply,

Straight give them both the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness,

Tell nature of decay,

Tell friendship of unkindness,

Tell justice of delay:

And if they dare 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.

Tell faith it's fled the city,

Tell how the country erreth ;
Tell, mankind shakes off pity,
And virtue least preferreth :

And if they dare 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.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

THE QUIET MIND.

HEN all is done and said,

In th' end this shall you find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss, That hath a quiet mind.

And, clear from worldly cares,

To deem can be content,
The sweetest time in all his life

In thinking to be spent.

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The body subject is

To fickle fortune's power ; And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour.

And death in time doth change

It to a clod of clay;

Whereas the mind, which is divine,
Runs never to decay.

Companion none is like

Unto the mind alone;

For many have been harm'd by speech,-
Through thinking, few or none.

Fear oftentimes restraineth words,
But makes not thoughts to cease;
And he speaks best that hath the skill
When for to hold his peace.

Wherefore, for virtue's sake,

I can be well content,

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BENEATH A SABLE VEIL.

SONNET.

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ENEATH a sable veil, and shadows deep,

Of inaccessible and dimming light,

In silence' ebon clouds, more black than night,

The world's great Mind His secrets hid doth keep. Through those thick mists, when any mortal wight Aspires, with halting pace, and eyes that weep, To pry, and in His mysteries to creep,

With thunders He and lightnings blasts their sight. O Sun invisible, that dost abide

Within Thy bright abyss, most fair, most dark, Where with Thy proper rays Thou dost Thee hide! O ever shining, never full-seen mark,

To guide me in life's night, Thy light O show!
The more I search of Thee, the less I know.

WM. DRUMMOND.

THRICE HAPPY HE.

SONNET.

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HRICE happy he, who, by some shady grove,

Far from the clamorous world, doth

live his own;

Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that Eternal Love.
Oh, how more sweet the bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's
throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! Oh, how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights, Wood's harmless shades have only true delights. WM. DRUMMOND.

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