Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come.
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul.

*

*

*

The stars move still,-time runs the clock will strike. *

*

*

Oh, I'll leap up to heaven!-Who pulls me down?
See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop of blood will save me: Oh my Christ!-
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ.
Yet will I call on HIM!-Oh spare me, Lucifer!—
Where is it now?-'Tis gone:

And see a threatening arm-an angry brow!
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven!
No! Then will I headlong run into the earth:
Gape, earth!—Oh, no; it will not harbour me.
Ye stars that reigned at my nativity,

Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud;
That, when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.

The watch strikes.

Oh! half the hour is past: 'twill all be past anon.
Oh! if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pain:
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand and at last be saved:

No end is limited to damnéd souls.

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul,
Or, why is this immortal that thou hast?

Oh!

Pythagoras,-Metempsychosis!-were that true,

This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast.

All beasts are happy, for when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolved in element!

Now, Faustus, curse thyself-curse Lucifer,
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 79

The clock strikes twelve.

It strikes it strikes! now body turn to air.

*

*

*

Oh, soul, be changed into small water drops,
And fall into the ocean-ne'er be found!

Chorus.

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough

That sometime grew within this learned man:
Faustus is gone! Regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendfull fortune may exhort the wise
Only to wonder at unlawful things;

Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practise more than heavenly power permits.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, or hill, or field,
Or woods and steepy mountains yield;

Where we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers, lined choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

Thy silver dishes, for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me and be my love.1

ANSWER TO THE ABOVE BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.2

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love,

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
And age complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath bless'd and sent for food

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

1 Parts of the second and third stanzas of this song are quoted in the Merry Wives of Windsor, Act iii. Sc. 1.

2 Printed in England's Helicon, 1600, with the signature Ignoto, and in some copies with the initials W. R. Izaak Walton assigns it to Raleigh, and interpolates the sixth verse, supposed to be his own composition.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

81

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

THIS poem first appeared in print in Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, second edition, 1608. It has, however, been traced in manuscript to 1593. The contemporaries of Raleigh ascribed it to him, manuscript copies bear his name, and there seems no reason to doubt that it was his composition.

Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand!
Fear not to touch the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant.

Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the Court-it glows

And shines like rotten wood;

Go, tell the Church-it shows

What's good, and doth no good.

If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates-they live
Acting by others' action,

Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition

That rule affairs of state-
Their purpose is ambition,

Their practice-only hate.

And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending

Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending.

And if they make reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal-it lacks devotion;
Tell Love-it is but lust;
Tell Time-it is but motion;

Tell Flesh-it is but dust.
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

E

Tell Age-it daily wasteth;
Tell Honour-how it alters;
Tell Beauty-how she blasteth;
Tell Favour how it falters.

And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell Wit-how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
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-its 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,

et stab at thee who will, No stab the soul can kill.