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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 that will,

No stab the soul can kill!

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

HIS PILGRIMAGE

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Traveleth towards the land of Heaven;
Over the silver mountains

Where spring the nectar fountains:

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,

And drink mine everlasting fill

Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before;
But after, it will thirst no more.

Then by that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk 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,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,

and sea,

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 [15527-1618]

THE CONCLUSION

EVEN Such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,

My God will raise me up, I trust.

Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618]

DEATH'S SUMMONS

ADIEU, farewell, earth's bliss!
This world uncertain is:

Fond are life's lustful joys,

Death proves them all but toys.

None from his darts can fly:

I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;

Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower,
Which wrinkles will devour:
Brightness falls from the air;

Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye:
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave;

Worms feed on Hector brave;

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;

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death 3241

And all affections are forgot,

Or trouble not.

Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be

From shackles free:

And weeping widows, long oppressed,

Do here find rest.

The wrongèd client ends his laws

Here, and his cause.

Here those long suits of Chancery lie
Quiet, or die:

And all Star-Chamber bills do cease
Or hold their peace.

Here needs no Court for our Request

Where all are best,

All wise, all equal, and all just

Alike i' th' dust.

Nor need we here to fear the frown

Of court or crown:

Where Fortune bears no sway o'er things,

There all are kings.

In this securer place we'll keep

As lulled asleep;

Or for a little time we'll lie

As robes laid by;

To be another day re-worn,

Turned, but not torn:

Or like old testaments engrossed,

Locked up, not lost.

And for a while lie here concealed,

To be revealed

Next at that great Platonic Year,

And then meet here.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

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