ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

[1560-1595.]

CONTENT AND RICH.

I DWELL in grace's courts,
Enriched with virtue's rights;

Faith guides my wit, love leads my will,
Hope all my mind delights.

In lowly vales I mount

To pleasure's highest pitch,
My simple dress sure honor brings,
My poor estate is rich.

My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself;
My bliss is in my breast.

Enough, I reckon wealth;
A mean, the surest lot,

That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,
All easy to fulfil;

I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.

I have no hopes but one,
Which is of heavenly reign:
Effects attained, or not desired,
All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin,
Well-doing is my wealth:
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride:

Their fate is worst, that from the height
Of greater honor slide.

Silk sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear : I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage
While fury's flame doth burn;
It is in vain to stop the stream
Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late-enragéd foe Into a quiet friend;

And, taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe That, pampered, would repine.

I envy not their hap

Whom favor doth advance: I take no pleasure in their pain That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall

I deem a losing gain :

All states with others' ruins built To ruins run amain.

No change of fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down: When fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown;

And when, in froward mood,
She proved an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,
Less loss to let her go.

ALEXANDER HUME.

[About 1599.]

A SUMMER'S DAY.

THE time so tranquil is and clear,
That nowhere shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
An air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or stir.

The ships becalmed upon the seas,
Hang up their sails to dry;
The herds, beneath the leafy trees,
Among the flowers they lie.

For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth, Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find?

Till both their proper elements do

touch.

wealth?

much;

such,

As almost here she with her bliss doth meet.

But when in heaven she shall his essence see,

This is her sovereign good, and perfect bliss,

Her longings, wishings, hopes, all finished be,

Her joys are full, her motions rest in this.

name

If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,

Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom

rare:

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold,

Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best,

On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold;

Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,

It is some picture on the margin wrought.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

[1568 - 1639.]

TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF

BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light! You common people of the skies! What are you, when the sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your voices understood

By your weak accents! what's your praise

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own!
What are you, when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind; By virtue first, then choice, a Queen! Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind?

THE GOOD MAN.

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armor is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath;

13

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend:

This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW
[About 1613.]

REVENGE OF INJURIES.

THE fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;
For who forgives without a further strie,
His adversary's heart to him doth we;
And 't is a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done; But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:

Great hearts are tasked beyond their power but seld;

The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.