Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a noble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid, His sugar'd words hath me betray'd. Then mayst thou joy and be right glad; Although in woe I seem to moan, Thy father is no rascal lad, A noble youth of blood and bone: His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile. Come, little boy, and rock asleep; Sing lullaby and be thou still; I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: God bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality. Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 75. The Silent Lover i PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; So, when affection yields discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover. Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 76. The Silent Lover ii 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 ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, 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. Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 77. His Pilgrimage 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 balmer; No other balm will there be given: Whilst my soul, like 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. Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 78. The Conclusion 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 wander'd 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. Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599 79. Whilst it is prime