Tell Faith it's fled the City; So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing,— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing,— Yet, stab at thee that will, No stab the soul can kill! Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618] HIS PILGRIMAGE GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; Blood must be my body's balmer, Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; Then by that happy, blissful day, To quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Then the blessed paths we'll travel, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, Against our souls black verdicts give, Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader, and sea, Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head! Then am I ready, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ. O death and judgment, heaven and hell, Walter Raleigh [15527-1618] THE CONCLUSION EVEN Such is Time, that takes in trust But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God will raise me up, I trust. Walter Raleigh [1552?-1618] DEATH'S SUMMONS ADIEU, farewell, earth's bliss! Fond are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly: I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Rich men, trust not in wealth, Physic himself must fade; Lord, have mercy on us! Beauty is but a flower, Queens have died young and fair; Lord, have mercy on us! Strength stoops unto the grave; Worms feed on Hector brave; Swords may not fight with fate; Lord, have mercy on us! Wit with his wantonness, Hath no ears for to hear Lord, have mercy on us! Haste therefore each degree Mount we unto the sky: I am sick, I must die. Lord, have mercy on us! Thomas Nashe [1567-1601] HIS WINDING-SHEET COME thou, who art the wine and wit Of all I've writ: The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest. Thou art of what I did intend The all and end; And what was made, was made to meet Thee, thee, my sheet. Come then, and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride: We two, as reliques left, will have One rest, one grave: And, hugging close, we will not fear Lust entering here: Where all desires are dead and cold As is the mold; A Prayer in the Prospect of Death 3241 And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be From shackles free: And weeping widows, long oppressed, Do here find rest. The wrongèd client ends his laws Here, and his cause. Here those long suits of Chancery lie And all Star-Chamber bills do cease Here needs no Court for our Request Where all are best, All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown: Where Fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings. In this securer place we'll keep As lulled asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie As robes laid by; To be another day re-worn, Turned, but not torn: Or like old testaments engrossed, Locked up, not lost. And for a while lie here concealed, To be revealed Next at that great Platonic Year, And then meet here. Robert Herrick [1591-1674] A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, |