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 Honor how it alters;
Tell Beauty how she blasteth;
Tell Favor 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.

s Pilgrimage

t's fled the City;
the Country erreth,
od shakes off pity;
e least preferreth:
do reply,
o give the lie.

ou hast, as I

ded thee, done blabbing,-
o give the lie

no less than stabbing,—

t thee that will,

e soul can kill!

3237

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

S PILGRIMAGE

hy scallop-shell of quiet,

fof faith to walk upon,
of joy, immortal diet,
le of salvation,

of glory, hope's true gage;
I'll take my pilgrimage.
st be my body's balmer,
balm will there be given;
soul, like quiet palmer,
towards the land of Heaven;
silver mountains

ring the nectar fountains:

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss, mine everlasting fill ry milken hill.

will be a-dry before;
, it will thirst no more.

that happy, blissful day,
ceful pilgrims I shall see,
e cast off their rags of clay,
: appareled fresh like me.
I'll take them first

To quench their thirst,

And taste of nectar's suckets

At those clear wells

Where sweetness dwells

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,

Then the blessed paths we'll travel,
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel;—
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser bought or sold,

No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the King's Attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And He hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
Against our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads His death, and then we live.

Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder!
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms;
Not with a bribèd lawyer's palms.

And this is mine eternal plea

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,

And want a head to dine next noon,

Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,

Set on my soul an everlasting head!

Then am I ready, like a palmer, fit

To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

O death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618]

Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;
Come, come, the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny!
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;

Mount we unto the sky:

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Thomas Nashe [1567-1601]

HIS WINDING-SHEET

COME thou, who art the wine and wit

Of all I've writ:

The grace, the glory, and the best

Piece of the rest.

Thou art of what I did intend

The all and end;

And what was made, was made to meet

Thee, thee, my sheet.

Come then, and be to my chaste side

Both bed and bride:

We two, as reliques left, will have

One rest, one grave:

And, hugging close, we will not fear

Lust entering here:

Where all desires are dead and cold

As is the mold;