Sir Walter Raleigh.
PASSIONS are likend best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.
WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he
feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though neer so witty:
A beggar that is dumb,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that
hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hopes true gage;
And thus Ill take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my bodys balmer;
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry
But, after, it will thirst no more.
EVEN such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but
with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wanderd all our ways,
Shuts up the
story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
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