I fear no care for gold,
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 fall is worse that from the height
Of greatest honour slide.
Since sails of largest size
The storm does 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 enragèd foe
Into a quiet friend;
And, taught with often proof,
A temper'd 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, pamper'd, would repine.
To rise by others' fall
I deem a losing gain;
All states, by others' ruin built,
To ruin run amain.
No change of fortune's calm
Can cast my comforts down;
When fortune smiles, I smile to think
How quickly she may 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.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL. *
* Robert Southwell, the writer of the preceding two pieces, was born in Norwich, and educated abroad as a Catholic priest. Zealous to excess, probably, for his faith, he became involved in some of the Romanist plots against Queen Elizabeth and the Established Church. He was imprisoned, put to the question ten times in the space of three years, and finally tried and executed at Tyburn in 1595.See article "R. Southwell," Penny Cyclopedia.
AREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious
bubbles.
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day;
Beauty (th' eye's idol) but a damask'd skin;
State but a golden prison to live in ;
And fortune's free-born minds' embroider'd trains,
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ;
And blood akin to greatness is alone
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own.
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill;
I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke ;
I would be rich, but see men (too unkind)
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind ;*
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, while the ass goes free;
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud ;
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass.
Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; rich, still envied
I have wish'd all; and now I wish for neither
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair,-poor I'll be rather.
Would the world now adopt me for her heir;
Would Beauty's queen entitle me the fair;
Fame speak me fortune's minion; could I "vie
Angels" with India; with a speaking eye
Command bare heads, bow'd knees; strike justice
dumb,
As well as blind and lame; or give a tongue
To stones by epitaphs; be called "great master"
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster;
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise-all in superlatives,
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever fortune would have made them mine,
And hold one minute of this holy leisure,
Beyond the riches of this mortal pleasure.
Welcome, pure thoughts; welcome, ye silent
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly
Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring.
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares;
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears,-
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect a holy melancholy;
And if contentment be a stranger, then
I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.
OW happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another's will,
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his only skill:
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of prince's ear, or vulgar breath:
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