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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 so much on seeming.
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.
Tell Faith it's fled the city;
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 friend, why kills it, as a foe,
Friend faber, cast me a round hollow ball,
Blown full of wind, for emblem of this All;
With flowers and fruits, with brooks, beasts, fish, and fowl,
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 proud kings bade Heaven defiance?
Methinks I see a mighty smoke
Thick mounting from quick-burning matter,
Go, silly worm, drudge, trudge, and travel,
The World and Death one day them cross-disguised,
To say whose servant he would fairly yield him.
TO HIM whose death killed Death, and from the world has driven him.
THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY.
O perfect Light, which shaid away
And set a ruler o'er the day,
While in the east, when it is gone,
Our hemisphere is polished clean,
Except the glistering astres bright,
The golden globe incontinent
The misty reek, the clouds of rain
Clear are the highest hills and plain,