SIR WALTER RALEIGH. By shallow rivers, to whose falls And I will make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May-morning: SIR WALTER RALEIGH. [1552-1618.] THE NYMPH'S REPLY. IF all the world and love were young, Time drives the flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 5 But could youth last, and love still breed, THE PILGRIM. GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My gown of glory (hope's true gauge), Over the silver mountains, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh, like me. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. Go, soul, the body's guest, Go, tell the court it glows, Tell potentates they live Acting by others' actions; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by their factions: If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition That rule affairs of state, Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest | Did never muse inspire beneath bed; A chamber deaf to noise and blind to A poet's brain with finer store. 7 He wrote of love with high conceit And beauty reared above her height. Such self-assurance need not fear the | The pledge of all your band? may The sacred ceremonies there partake, Behold whiles she before the altar stands, stain, Like crimson dyed in grain, That even the angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, Forget their service, and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair The more they on it stare; But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, Why blush ye, Love! to give to me your hand, Sing, ye sweet angels! Alleluia sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. UNA AND THE LION. ONE day, nigh weary of the irksome way, It fortunéd, out of the thickest wood, His bloody rage assuagéd with remorse, And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet, And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue, As he her wrongéd innocence did weet. O how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pride and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her heart 'gan melt in great compassion, And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. EDMUND SPENSER. THE HOUSE OF RICHES. THAT house's form within was rude and strong, Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung Embossed with massy gold of glorious gift, And with rich metal loaded every rift, That heavy ruin they did seem to threat; And over them Arachne high did lift Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, Enwrappéd in foul smoke and clouds more black than jet. Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all of gold, But overgrown with dust and old de cay, And hid in darkness, that none could behold The hue thereof: for view of cheerful day Did never in that house itself display, But a faint shadow of uncertain light; Such as a lamp whose life does fade away; Or as the Moon, clothed with cloudy night, Does show to him that walks in fear and sad affright. In all that room was nothing to be seen But huge great iron chests, and coffers strong, All barred with double bends, that none could ween Them to enforce by violence or wrong; On every side they placéd were along. But all the ground with sculls was scatteréd And dead men's bones, which round about were flung; Whose lives, it seeméd, whilome there were shed, And their vile carcasses now left unburiéd. THE BOWER OF BLISS. THERE the most dainty paradise on ground And none does others' happiness envy; 9 |