Tell Wisdom she entangles

Herself in over wiseness.

And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness,

Tell skill it is pretension,

Tell charity of coldness,
Tell law it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

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,

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,
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;
Yet stab at thee who will,

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
By yonder little hill,

Or, as thou through the fields didst stray,
Saw'st thou my Daffodil?

She's in a frock of Lincoln green,
Which colour likes her sight,
And never hath her beauty seen,
But through a veil of white.

Than roses, richer to behold,
That dress up lovers' bowers,
The pansy and the marigold,
Though Phoebus' paramours.

Gorbo. Thou well describ'st the Daffodil :
It is not full an hour

Since, by the spring near yonder hill,
I saw that lovely flower.

Batte, Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet,
Nor news of her didst bring,
And yet my Daffodil's more sweet
Than that by yonder spring.

Gorbo. I saw a shepherd that doth keep
In yonder field of lilies,

Was making, as he fed his sheep,
A wreath of daffodillies.

Batte. Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still,
My flower thou didst not see,

For know, my pretty Daffodil

Is worn of none but me.

Gorbo. Through yonder vale as I did pass,
Descending from the hill,

I met a smirking bonny lass,
They call her Daffodil,

Whose presence, as along she went,
The pretty flowers did greet,

As though their heads they downward bent
With homage to her feet;

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
Thou all my flocks dost fill;

That's she alone, kind shepherd's boy,
Let us to Daffodil.