Sir Walter Raleigh

Nature, that washed her hands in milk,
And had forgot to dry them,
Instead of earth took snow and silk,
At love's request to try them,

To Griggs, that learned man, in many a bygone session,     His kids were his delight, and physics his profession;     Now Griggs, grown old and glum, and less intent on knowledge,     Physics himself at home, and sends his kids to college

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

When I am safely laid away, Out of work and out of play, Sheltered by the kindly ground From the world of sight and sound, One or two of those I leave Will remember me and grieve, Thinking how I made them gay By the things I used to say; — But the...

Prais'd be Diana's fair and harmless light; Prais'd be the dews wherewith she moists the ground; Prais'd be her beams, the glory of the night; Prais'd be her power by which all powers abound
Prais'd be her nymphs with whom she decks the woods...

The sun may set and rise,
But we, contrariwise,
Sleep, after our short light,
One everlasting night

Now what is Love,
I pray thee, tell
It is that fountain and that
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;

Even such is time, which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust,
Who in the dark and silent grave When we have wandered all our ways Shuts up the story of our days,
And from which eart...

Rise,
O my soul
with thy desires to heaven,
And with divinest contemplation

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,

Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expir'd,
And past return are all my dandled days;
My love misled, and fancy quite retir'd— Of all which pass'd the sorrow only stays
My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,

What is our life
A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,