Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in over wiseness. 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 justice of delay. 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 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, 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; No stab the soul can kill. MICHAEL DRAYTON Was born at Harsull, in the county of Warwick, in 1563. He discovered, when extremely young, a remarkable propensity to study, and rose early to literary reputation, which he enjoyed during three successive reigns: he died in 1631. His " Polyolbion" is certainly a wonderful work, exhibiting, at once, the learning of an historian, an antiquary, a naturalist, and a geographer, and embellished by the imagination of a poet. But, perhaps a topographical description of England is not much improved by such embellishment. Those who can best appreciate the merit of its accuracy will seldom search for information in a poem; and of the lovers of poetry, some are disgusted with. the subject, and others with the Alexandrine metre, which Drayton has unfortunately adopted. His pastorals, which he published in 1593, under the quaint title of "Idea; the "Shepherd's Garland, fashioned in nine Eclogues, &c." his "Nymphidia," and, in general, all his smaller poems, are easy and pleasing. The "Barons' Wars," and "Eng"land's Heroical Epistles," have lost, and are not likely to recover, their ancient popularity. [The Shepherd's Daffodil.] Batte. GORBO, as thou cam'st this way Or, as thou through the fields didst stray, She's in a frock of Lincoln green, Than roses, richer to behold, Gorbo. Thou well describ'st the Daffodil : Since, by the spring near yonder hill, Batte, Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet, Gorbo. I saw a shepherd that doth keep Was making, as he fed his sheep, Batte. Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still, For know, my pretty Daffodil Is worn of none but me. Gorbo. Through yonder vale as I did pass, I met a smirking bonny lass, Whose presence, as along she went, As though their heads they downward bent And all the shepherds that were nigh, From top of every hill, Unto the vallies loud did cry, There goes sweet Daffodil ! Batte. Aye, gentle shepherd, now with joy That's she alone, kind shepherd's boy, |