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Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how she falters:

And as they then reply,
Give each of them the lye.

Tell wit how much it wrangles

In tickle points of nicenesse;
Tell wisdome she entangles
Herselfe in over-wisenesse;

And if they do reply,
Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse;

Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldnesse;
Tell law it is contention;

And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse;

Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse;
Tell justice of delay;

And if they dare reply,
They give them all the lye.

Tell arts they have no soundnesse,

But vary by esteeming;
Tell schooles they want profoundnesse,
And stand too much on seeming;

If arts and schooles reply,
Give arts and schooles the lye.

Tell faith it 's fled the citie;

Tell how the country erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;

Tell, vertue least preferreth;

LAMENT FOR SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing-
Although to give the lye
Deserves no less than stabbing-

Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soule can kill.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Lament for Sir Philip Sidney.

You knew—who knew not Astrophel ?

That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still ! -

Things known permit me to renew.
Of him you know his merit such
I cannot say-you hear—too much.

Within these woods of Arcady

He chief delight and pleasure took;
And on the mountain Partheny,

Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The muses met him every day,-
Taught him to sing, and write, and say.

When he descended down the mount

His personage seemed most divine;
A thousand graces one might count

Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne.
To hear him speak, and see him smile,
You were in Paradise the while.

A sweet, attractive kind of grace;

A full assurance given by looks;

Continual comfort in a face;

The lineaments of gospel books:
I trow that countenance cannot lie
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.

Above all others this is he

Who erst approved in his song
That love and honor might agree,

And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame
To love a man of virtuous name.

Did never love so sweetly breathe

In any mortal breast before;
Did never muse inspire beneath

A poet's brain with finer store.
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beauty reared above her height.

Mathew ROYDON

Man's Mortality.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossoms on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man-he dies !

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that 's new begun,

MAN'S MORTALITY.

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Or like a bird that 's here to-day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan near death,-man's life is done!

Like to a bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of a stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot,
The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water glides,-man's life is done!

Like to a blaze of fond delight,
Or like a morning clear and bright,
Or like a frost, or like a shower,
Or like the pride of Babel's tower,
Or like the hour that guides the time,
Or like to Beauty in her prime;
Even such is man, whose glory lends
That life a blaze or two, and ends.
The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain,
The frost is thawed, dried up the rain,
The tower falls, the hour is run,
The beauty lost,-man's life is done!

Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole;
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto Fate.
The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent,
The time 's no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt, -man's life is done!

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a short song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.
The lightning 's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey 's so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves,—and so must all!

Simon WASTEL.

Willy Drowned in Yarrow.

“WILLY 's rare, and Willy 's fair,

And Willy 's wondrous bonny; And Willy heght to marry me,

Gin e'er he married ony.

“Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,

This night I 'll make it narrow; For a' the livelang winter night

I ly twined of my marrow.

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