Now all these careful sights

So kill me in conceit

That how to hope upon delights,
It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse!
Thou know'st what help is best:
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest!

And in a dream bewray

What fate shall be my friend : Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end!

HER EYES.

Pretty twinkling starry eyes!
How did Nature first devise
Such a sparkling in your sight
As to give Love such delight.
As to make him like a fly
Play with looks until he die?

Sure ye were not made at first
For such mischief to be cursed
As to kill affection's care,

That doth only truth declare :

Where worth's wonders never wither

Love and Beauty live together.

Blessed eyes! then give your blessing,
That in passion's best expressing
Love, that only lives to grace ye,
May not suffer pride deface ye;
But in gentle thoughts' directions
Show the praise of your perfections!

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

1552-1618.

THE LIE.

Go, Soul! the body's guest,
Upon a thankless arrant!
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 Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie!

Tell Potentates they live
Acting by others' action!
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by their faction.
If Potentates reply,

Give Potentates the lie!

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

Seek 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 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 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! 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 pretension!
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!

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,

Stab at thee he that will!

No stab the soul can kill.

A VISION

Upon the Conceit of the Faery Queen.

Methought 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 Faery 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 cursed the access of that celestial thief.

EDMUND SPENSER.

1552-1598.

PROTHALAMION.

Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play,
A gentle spirit that lightly did delay

Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair,
When I (whom sullen care-

Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In Prince's Court and expectation vain
Of idle hopes which still do fly away

Like empty shadows-did afflict my brain)
Walk'd forth to ease my pain

Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames :
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
Fit to deck maidens' bowers

And crown their paramours,

Against the bridal day, which is not long :
Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.

There in a meadow by the river's side

A flock of Nymphs I chanced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
As each had been a bride ;

And each one had a little wicker basket

Made of fine twigs entrailed curiously,

In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropp'd full featously
The tender stalks on high.

Of every sort which in that meadow grew

They gather'd some the violet pallid blue,