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Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace :

30 What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?

Lord Bacon.

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Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost

Like nothing but commending :
And if they make reply,
Then tell them all they lie.
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 Honour how it alters;
Tell Beauty how she blasteth;

Tell Favour 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.
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 babbling,
Although to give the lie

Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soul can kill.







What is the world? tell, worldling, if thou know it. If it be good, why do all ills o'erflow it ?

If it be bad, why dost thou like it so?
If it be sweet, how comes it bitter then ?
If it be bitter, what bewitcheth men ?

If it be friend, why kills it, as a foe,
Vain-minded men that over-love and lust it?
If it be foe, fondling, how darst thou trust it?




Friend faber, cast me a round hollow ball,
Blown full of wind, for emblem of this All ;

Adorn it fair, and flourish every part
With flowers and fruits, with brooks, beasts, fish, and fowl,
With rarest cunning of thy curious art:

5 And grave in gold, about my silver bowl, Thus rolls the world, the idol of mankind, Whose fruit is fiction, whose foundation wind.



Where, where are now the great reports

Of those huge haughty earthborn giants ?
Where are the lofty towers and forts

Of those proud kings bade Heaven defiance?
When these I to my mind revoke,
Methinks I see a mighty smoke
Thick mounting from quick-burning matter,
Which in an instant winds do scatter.




Go, silly worm, drudge, trudge, and travel,

Despising pain, so thou may'st gain
Some honour or some golden gravel ;
But death the while, to fill his number,

With sudden call takes thee from all,
To prove thy days but dream and slumber.

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The World and Death one day them cross-disguised,

To cozen man, when sin had once beguiled him. Both called him forth, and questioning advised

To say whose servant he would fairly yield him. Man, weening then but to the World to have given him, 5

By the false World became the slave of Death ;

But from their fraud he did appeal by faith To Him whose death killed Death, and from the world has driven him.

Joshua Sylvester.

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Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe,
And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks,
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.


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