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 Wit how much it wrangles Herself in over-wiseness: 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; ou hast, as I ded thee, done blabbing,- 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 glory, hope's true gage; ring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, mine everlasting fill ry milken hill. will be a-dry before; that happy, blissful day, 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 Then the blessed paths we'll travel, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader, And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea, 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, Walter Raleigh (1552?-1618] Swords may not fight with fate; Lord, have mercy on us! Wit with his wantonness, Hath no ears for to hear Lord, have mercy on us! Haste therefore each degree 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; |