Some darks had been discovered, and the deeds too: 'T is not enough to clear ourselves, but the Aret. Your lecture? Born. I have done: and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries To your delights, without curb to their modest SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1552-1618. The Soul's Errand. Go, soul, the body's guest, Fear not to touch the best, Go, since I needs must die, Tell potentates, they live Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by their factions. If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth, Tell beauty how she blasteth, 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, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, Tell schools they want profoundness, If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing: Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; No stab the soul can kill. Men. A nightingale, Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she, The nightingale, did with her various notes That such they were, than hope to hear again. Men. You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study To end the controversy, in a rapture That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight. Amet. Now for the bird. Men. The bird, ordained to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on his lute, And brake her heart! It was the quaintest sadness, 1 To see the conqueror upon her hearse, Tc weep a funeral elegy of tears: That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me Amet. I believe thee. Men. He looked upon the trophies of his art, Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried: Passed but just now by your next neighbour's house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaffed to be a pinnace |