3.

ANOTHER, OF ANOTHER MIND.

KING? oh, boon for my aspiring mind! A cottage makes a country swad rejoice;

And as for death, I like him in his kind,
But God forbid that he should be my choice!
A kingdom or a cottage or a grave,—

Nor last, nor next, but first and best I crave;
The rest I can whenas I list enjoy,

Till then salute me thus,-Vive le Roy!

F. M.

4.

ANOTHER, OF ANOTHER MIND.

HE greatest kings do least command

content;

The greatest cares do still attend a

crown;

A grave all happy fortunes do[th] prevent,
Making the noble equal with the clown:
A quiet country life to lead I crave;
A cottage, then; no kingdom nor a grave.

XVI.

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.1

(By Sir Edward Dyer. Born circ. 1540; died 1607.)

Y mind to me a kingdom is,

M

Such present joys therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss

That earth affords or grows by kind:

Though much I want which most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,

No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to feed a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall :
For why? My mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty [surfeits] oft,
And hasty climbers soon do fall;
I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
They get with toil, they keep with fear;
Such cares my mind could never bear.

From MS. Rawl. 85, p. 17. There is a very similar but anonymous copy in Brit. Mus. Addit. MS. 15,225, p. 85. Longer copies, also anonymous, are printed from Byrd in "Exc. Tudor." vol. i. pp. 100-1, and in "Cens. Lit." vol. ii. pp. 108-9; as well as by Percy, &c. There is an imitation in J. Sylvester's "Works," p. 651.

Content to 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.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and 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 leave; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss;

I grudge not at another's pain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain :
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
Their treasure is their only trust;

A cloaked craft their store of skill:
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease:
My conscience clear my chief defence;
I neither seek by bribes to please,

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

E. DIER.

XVII.

1.

THE SHEPHERD'S CONCEIT OF

PROMETHEUS.1

(By Sir Edward Dyer.)

ROMETHEUS when first from heaven

high

He brought down fire, 'ere then on
earth unseen,

Fond of the light, a satyr, standing by,
Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been.

Feeling forthwith the other's burning power, Wood with the smart, with shouts and shriekings shrill,

He sought his ease in river, field and bower,
But for the time his grief went with him still.

So silly I, with that unwonted sight

In human shape, an angel from above,
Feeding mine eyes, the impression there did light,
That since I run and rest as pleaseth love.

The difference is, the satyr's lips, my heart,-
He for a while, I evermore,—have smart.

I With Dyer's name in MS. Rawl. 85, p. 8, and "England's Helicon," 1600; also headed E. D. in "the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia," p. 477, edit. 1598. An anonymous copy in Harl. MS. 6910, fol. 154, verso.

2.

A REPLY.1

(By Sir Philip Sidney.)

SATYR once did run away for dread,

With sound of horn, which he himself did blow;

Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled,

Deeming strange evil in that he did not know.

Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, It makes them fly that which they fain would

have;

As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake,
Thinking not why, but how, himself to save.

Even thus mought I, for doubts which I conceive Of mine own words, mine own good hap betray; And thus might I, for fear of maybe, leave

The sweet pursuit of my desired prey.

Better like I thy satyr, dearest Dyer,
Who burnt his lips to kiss fair shining fire.
From the same copies as the preceding piece.