Songs of Three Centuries

So earth falls down, and fire doth mount Who ever ceased to wish when he had

Then as a bee, which among weeds doth | There is she crowned with garlands of

fall,

Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and gay,

She lights on that and this, and tasteth all;

But pleased with none, doth rise and

soar away.

So when the soul finds here no true content,

And like Noah's dove can no sure footing take,

She doth return from whence she first was sent,

And flies to Him that first her wings

did make.

So while the virgin soul on earth doth

stay,

content;

There doth she manna eat, and nectar

drink:

That presence doth such high delights present,

As never tongue could speak, nor heart could think.

THOMAS NASH.

[1564-1600.]

CONTENTMENT.

Or thrust my hand too far into the fire.
I NEVER loved ambitiously to climb,

She, wooed and tempted in ten thou-To be in heaven sure is a blessed thing. But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one's back

sand ways,

By these great powers which on the earth

bear sway,

The wisdom of the world, wealth, pleasure, praise:

With these sometimes she doth her time

This honey tasted still, is ever sweet; OF this fair volume which we World do The pleasure of her ravished thought is

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

ВОНЕМІА.

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,

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW.

Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath;

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 strike,

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.

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous | He looks upon the mightiest monarch's

Of his resolvéd powers; nor all the wind
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong
His settled peace, or to disturb the same:
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he
may

The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey?

And with how free an eye doth he look down

Upon these lower regions of turmoil? Where all the storms of passions mainly beat

On flesh and blood: where honor, power, renown,

Are only gay afflictions, golden toil; Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet,

As frailty doth; and only great doth seem To little minds, who do it so esteem.

Passion can make; inured to any hue The world can cast: it cannot cast that mind

Out of her form of goodness, that doth see Both what the best and worst of earth can be.

Which makes, that whatsoever here be

falls,

You in the region of yourself remain: Where no vain breath of the impudent molests

That hath secured within the brazen walls

WILLIAM BYRD.

Of a clear conscience, that (without all I see how plenty surfeits oft,

stain)

Rises in peace, in innocency rests; Whilst all that Malice from without pro

cures

Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not yours.

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, Than women use to do; yet you well know,

That wrong is better checked by being contemned,

Than being pursued; leaving to him to

avenge,

To whom it appertains. Wherein you show How worthily your clearness hath condemned

Base malediction, living in the dark, That at the rays of goodness still doth bark.

Knowing the heart of man is set to be
The centre of this world, about the which
These revolutions of disturbances
Still roll; where all the aspects of misery
Predominate whose strong effects are
such,

As he must bear, being powerless to redress:

And that unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.

WILLIAM BYRD.

[1540-1623.]

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find
As far exceeds all earthly bliss

That God or Nature hath assigned; 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 press to bear no haughty sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Lo! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toil, and keep with fear; Such cares my mind could never bear.

No princely pomp nor wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eye, -
To none of these I yield 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 poor, though much they
have;

And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that is another's bane. I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly bliss;
I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;

I fear not fortune's fatal law;
My mind is such as may not move
For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seek for more; I like the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate; I break no sleep to win my will; I wait not at the mighty's gate. I scorn no poor, I fear no rich; I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court nor cart I like nor loathe;

Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall; This is my choice; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

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