V. MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

THIS excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in the sixteenth century. It is quoted by Ben Jonson in his play of Every Man out of his Humour, first acted in 1599, Act i. Sc. i.

My minde to me a kingdome is;
Such perfect joy therein I finde
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse,

That God or Nature hath assignde : Though much I want, that most would have,

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live, this is my stay;

I seek no more than may suffice: I presse to beare no haughtie sway;

Look what I lack my mind supplies. Loe! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall: I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all:
These get with toile, and keep with feare :
Such cares my mind could never beare.

No princely pompe, nor welthie store,
No force to winne the victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,

No shape to winne a lovers eye;
To none of these I yeeld as thrall,
For why my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave,

I little have, yet seek no more:
They are but poore, tho' much they have;
And I am rich with little store:
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They cke, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at anothers losse,

I grudge not at anothers gaine; No worldly wave my mind can tosse, I brooke that is anothers bane:

I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I loth not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly Álisse, ̈

I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;

I feare not fortunes fatall law :
My mind is such as may not move
For beautie bright or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seeke for more;
I like the plaine, I clime no hill;

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore,
And laugh at them that toile in vaine
To get what must be lost againe.

I kisse not where I wish to kill;

I feigne not love where most I hate;
I breake no sleep to winne my will;

I wayte not at the mighties gate;
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich;
I feele no want, nor have too much.

The court, ne cart, I like, ne loath;

Extreames are counted worst of all: The golden meane betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall: This is my choyce, for why I finde, No wealth is like a quiet minde.

My welth is health, and perfect ease; My conscience clere my chiefe de fence:

I never seeke by brybes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence:
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!

VI. THE PATIENT COUNTESS.

THE subject of this tale is taken from an entertaining colloquy of Erasmus. The following stanzas are extracted from William Warner's poem, entitled Albion England. Warner is said to have been a Warwickshire man, and to have been educated in Oxford at Magdalen Hall. He died in 1608-1609, at Amwell in Hertfordshire. He held a fair rank as poet in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and was by profession an attorney of the Common Pleas."

IMPATIENCE chaungeth smoke to flame,

But jelousie is hell;

Some wives by patience have reduc'd

Ill husbands to live well:

As did the ladie of an earle,

Of whom I now shall tell.

An earle "there was" had wedded, lov'd;
Was lov'd, and lived long
Full true to his fayre countesse; yet
At last he did her wrong.

Once hunted he untill the chace,

Long fasting, and the heat
Did house him in a peakish graunge

Within a forest great.

Where knowne and welcom'd (as the place
And persons might afforde)

Browne bread, whig, bacon, curds and
milke

Were set him on the borde.

A cushion made of lists, a stoole
Halfe backed with a hoope
Were brought him, and he sitteth down
Besides a sorry coupe.

The poore old couple wisht their bread
Were wheat, their whig were perry,
Their bacon beefe, their milke and curds
Were creame, to make him merry.

Mean while (in russet neatly clad,

With linen white as swanne, Herselfe more white, save rosie where The ruddy colour ranne :

Whome naked nature, not the aydes
Of arte made to excell),

The good man's daughter sturres to see
That all were feat and well;

The earle did marke her, and admire
Such beautie there to dwell.

Yet fals he to their homely fare,
And held him at a feast:
But as his hunger slaked, so

An amorous heat increast.

When this repast was past, and thanks,
And welcome too; he saya
Unto his host and hostesse, in

The hearing of the mayd :

Yee know, quoth he, that I am lord
Of this, and many townes;
I also know that you be poore,

And I can spare you pownes.

Soe will I, so yee will consent,
That yonder lasse and I

May bargaine for her love; at least,

Doe give me leave to trye.
Who needs to know it? nay who dares
Into my doings pry?

First they mislike, yet at the length
For lucre were misled;

And then the gamesome earle did wowe
The damsell for his bed.

He took her in his armes, as yet

So coyish to be kist,

As mayds that know themselves belov'd,
And yieldingly resist.

When all was handsomly dispos'd,
She prayes them to have care
That nothing hap in their default,

That might his health impair:

And, Damsell, quoth shee, for it seemes
This houshold is but three,
And for thy parents age, that this

Shall chiefely rest on thee;

Do me that good, else would to God
He hither come no more.

So tooke she horse, and ere she went
Bestowed gould good store.

Full little thought the countie that

His countesse had done so ; Who now return'd from far affaires Did to his sweet-heart go.

No sooner sat he foote within

The late deformed cote,

But that the formall change of things
His wondring eies did note.

But when he knew those goods to be

His proper goods; though late,
Scarce taking leave, he home returnes
The matter to debate.

The countesse was a-bed, and he
With her his lodging tooke;

VII.-DOWSABELL.

THE following stanzas were written by Michael Drayton,* a poet of some eminence in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. They are inserted in one of his pastorals, and are inscribed with the author's name at length, "To the noble and valerous gentleman master Robert Dudley," etc.

FARRE in the countrey of Arden,
There won'd a knight, hight Cassemen,

As bolde as Isenbras:

Fell was he, and eger bent,
In battell and in tournament,

As was the good Sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabel,
A mayden fayre and free :
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was y-cond the leyre
Of mickle curtesie.

* Drayton was born in 1563, and died in 1631.

K