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THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

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 the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows,

And shines like rotten wood,
Go, tell 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 actions,
Not lov'd unless they give,
Not 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 ambition,
Their practice only hate.

And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

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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,
Spare not to give the lie.

1 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 honour how it alters, Tell beauty how she blasteth, Tell favour how she falters. And as they shall reply

Give each of them the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles

In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over wiseness.

And if 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 yield 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 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 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.

THE SILENT LOVER.
PASSIONS are liken’d best to floods and streams ;

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb:
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words must needs discover,
They are but poor in that which makes a lover.
Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart,

The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels so smart

Who sues for no compassion.
Since if my plaints were not t'approve

The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,

But fear t exceed my duty.
For, knowing that I sue to serve,

A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve

A place in her affection,
I rather choose to want relief,

Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,

Despais disdains the healing.

1

Silence in love betrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er so witty ;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,

My love for secret passion ;
He smarteth most who hides his smart,

And sues for no compassion.

IMITATION OF MARLOW. COME live with me, and be my dear,

And we will revel all the year, In plains and groves, on hills and dales, Where fragrant air breeds sweetest gales. There shall you have the beauteous pine, The cedar and the spreading vine, And all the woods to be a skreen, Lest Phebus kiss my summer's green. The seat at your disport shall be, Over some river, in a tree, Where silver sands, and pebbles, sing Eternal ditties with the spring. There shall you see the nymphs at play, And how the satyrs spend the day ; The fishes gliding on the sands, Offering their bellies to your hands. The birds with heavenly-tuned throats, Possess wood's echo with sweet notes; Which to your senses will impart A music to inflame the heart. Upon the bare and leafless oak, The ring-dove's wooings will provoke A colder blood than you possess, To play with me, and do no less,

In bowers of laurel, trimly dight, We will outwear the silent night, While Flora busy is to spread Her richest treasure on our bed. Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend, And all their sparkling lights shall spend, All to adorn and beautify Your lodging with more majesty. Then in mine arms will I inclose Lily's fair mixture with the rose; Whose nice perfections in love's play Shall tune me to the highest key. Thus, as we pass the welcome night In sportful pleasures and delight, The nimble fairies on the grounds Shall dance and sing melodious sounds. If these may serve for to entice Your presence to love's paradise, Then come with me, and be my dear, And we will straight begin the year.

SHALL I like an hermit dwell,

On a rock, or in a cell ?
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalues me,
What care I how fair she be?
Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid,
And, with little more a-do,
Work them into bracelets too:
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be?

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