Could any shewe where Plynyes people dwell <br />Whose head stands in their breast; who cannot tell <br />A smoothing lye because their open hart <br />And lippes are joyn'd so neare, I would depart <br />As quick as thought, and there forgett the wrongs <br />Which I have suffer'd by deceitfull tongues. <br />I should depart where soules departed bee, <br />Who being freed from cloudy flesh, can see <br />Each other so immediately, so cleare <br />That none needs tongue to speak, nor ears to hear. <br />Were tongues intended to express the soule, <br />And can wee better doe't with none at all? <br />Were words first made our meaning to reveale, <br />And are they usde our meaning to conceale? <br />The ayre by which wee see, will that turne fogg? <br />Our breath turne mist? Will that become a clogg <br />That should unload the mynde? Fall we upon <br />Another Babell's sub-confusion? <br />And in the self-same language must wee finde <br />A diverse faction of the words and minde? <br />Dull as I am, that hugg'd such emptie ayre, <br />And never mark't the deede (a phrase more faire, <br />More trusty and univocall): joyne well <br />Three or foure actions, we may quickly spell <br />A hollow hart: if those no light can lend <br />Read the whole sentence, and observe the end: <br />I will not wayte so long: the guilded man <br />On whom I ground my speech, no longer can <br />Delude my sense; nor can the gracefull arte <br />Of kind dissembling button upp his hart. <br />His well-spoke wrongs are such as hurtfull words <br />Writt in a comely hand; or bloody swords <br />Sheath'd upp in velvett; if hee draw on mee <br />My armour proofe is incredulity.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-dissembler/
