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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 blabbing :
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing;

Stab at thee he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.


Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair ;
Her brow shades frown, although her eyes are sunny,
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey :
A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love ;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design'd a saint above.
Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes,
Live reconciled friends within her brow;
And had she Pity to conjoin with those,
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,
My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.



WHEN Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave,
No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave,
At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring,
But hunts-up to the morn the feath’red sylvans sing :
And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole,
Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole,

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Those quiristers are perch't, with many a speckled breast,
Then from her burnisht gate the goodly glitt'ring east
Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night
Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight;
On which the mirthful quires, with their clear open throats,


Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes,
That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air
Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere.
The throstle, with shrill sharps, as purposely he song
T'awake the listless sun; or chiding, that so long

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