THE LIE. Go, tell the court it glows, And shines like rotten wood; What's good, and doth no good: Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action, Not strong but by a faction: Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion, Tell love it is but lust, Tell time it is but motion, Tell flesh it is but dust: 1 THE LIE. 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 And when they do reply, Tell physic of her boldness, Tell skill it is pretension, Tell charity of coldness, Tell fortune of her blindness, Tell nature of decay, Tell friendship of unkindness, Tell justice of delay: And if they will reply, THE LIE. Tell arts they have no soundness Tell schools they want profoundness, 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. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. SONNET. FAIR is my love, and cruel as she's fair; Her brow shades frown, although her eyes are sunny, A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind. SAMUEL DANIEL. BIRDS IN SPRING. WHEN Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, And in the lower grove, as on the rising knole, BIRDS IN SPRING. Those quiristers are perch't, with many a speckled breast, 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 |