« السابقةمتابعة »
Tell Physic, of her boldness;
Tell Skill, it is prevention;
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 so 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 preferred! And if they do reply; Spare not to give the lie!
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing:
Because to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing;
Stab at thee, he that will!
No stab, my soul can kill!
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet!
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage!
And thus I'll take my Pilgrimage!
Blood must be my body's only balmer;
No other balm will there be given!
Whilst my soul, like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven, Over the silver mountains,
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;
But, after, it will thirst no more!
Then by that happy blissful day,
More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see;
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them, first,
To quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar suckets,
At those clear wells,
Where sweetness dwells;
Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality;
Then, the blessèd paths we'll travel,
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence, to Heaven's bribeless Hall:
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold;
No forged accuser bought, or sold;
No Cause deferred, no vain-spent journey;
For there, CHRIST is the King's Attorney:
Who pleads for all, without degrees;
And he hath angels, but no fees.
And when the Grand twelve million Jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
Against our souls, black verdicts give: CHRIST pleads his death; and then we live!
Be thou my speaker, taintless Pleader!
Unblotted Lawyer! true Proceeder!
Thou giv'st salvation, even for alms!
Not with a bribèd Lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, and earth, and sea. That, since my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon; 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.
SHALL I (like a hermit) dwell
On a rock, or in a cell,
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it, where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If She undervalue me;
What care I, how fair She be!
Were her tresses angel-gold; If a stranger may be bold, Unrebukèd, unafraid,
To convert them to a braid;
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets too!
If the mine be grown so free;
What care I, how rich it be!
Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs, or precious eyes;
If She lay them out to take
Kisses, for good manners' sake!
And let every Lover skip
From her hand, unto her lip!
If She seem not chaste to me;
What care I, how chaste She be!
No! She must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show! Warming but as snowballs do; Not, like fire, by burning too!