But who is yond, thou lady faire, That looketh with sic an austerne face? He pulled his hatt down over his browe; Those sorrowful tidings him to show. Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd, I have now in Lough-leven been Therefore I'll to yon shooting wend, He ne'er shall find my promise light. He writhe a gold ring from his finger, In Harley woods where I cold bec.2 And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord, The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd, Then he cast up a silver wand, That lady fett a sigh soe deep, And in a dead swoone down shee fell. 1 Warden of the Middle March. 2 i. e. where I was. An ancient idiom. Now let us goe back, Douglas, he sayd, Then blamed for ever I shall bee. Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes; If you'll not turne yourself, my lord, And wee will return to you againe. Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes, When they had sayled1 fifty myle, Faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine, Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe, He thought his lord then was betray'd; To tell him what the Douglas sayd. Hold upp thy head, man, quoth his lord; He did it but to prove thy heart, When they had other fifty sayld, Lord Percy called to Douglas himselfe, Sayd, What wilt thou nowe doe with mee? 1 There is no navigable stream between Lough-leven and the sea: but a balladmaker is not obliged to understand geography. Looke that your brydle be wight, my lord, And your horse goe swift as shipp att sea: What needeth this, Douglas? he sayth; A false Hector hath my horse, Who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe: When they had sayled other fifty mile, They landed low by Berwicke side, A deputed 'laird'1 landed Lord Percye. Then he at Yorke was doomde to dye, 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. where an impatient person says, I am no such pil'd cynique to believe Or, with a number of these patient fooles, It is here chiefly printed from a thin quarto music book, intitled "Psalmes, Sonets, and Songs of sadnes and pietie, made into Musicke of five parts: &c. By William Byrd, one of the Gent. of the Queenes Majesties honorable Chappell. Printed by Thomas East, &c. 4to. no date: but Ames in his Typog. has mentioned another edit. of the same book, dated 1588, which I take to have been later than this. Some improvements and an additional stanza (sc. the 5th), were had, from two other ancient copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, thus inscribed, "A sweet and pleasant sonet, intitled 'my 1 The folio MS. reads "land," and has not the following stanza. Minde to me a Kingdom is.' To the tune of In Crete, &c." Some of the stanzas in this poem were printed by Byrd separate from the rest: they are here given in what seemed the most natural order. My minde to me a kingdome is; Such perfect joy therein I finde That God or Nature hath assignde: Content I live, this is my stay ; I seek no more than may suffice; I see how plentie surfets oft, And hastie clymbers soonest fall: Mishap doth threaten most of all: No princely pompe, nor welthie store, No shape to winne a lovers eye; Some have too much, yet still they crave, They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; I laugh not at anothers losse, I grudge not at anothers gaine; I joy not in no earthly blisse; I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw; I feare not fortunes fatall law: I wander not to seeke for more; In greatest stormes I sitte on shore, I kisse not where I wish to kill; I feigne not love where most I hate; Extreames are counted worst of all: My welth is health, and perfect ease; My conscience clere my chiefe defence: I never seeke by brybes to please, Nor by desert to give offence: VI. THE PATIENT COUNTESS which has The subject of this tale is taken from the entertaining Colloquy of Erasmus, intitled, "Uxor Meμyyaμos, sive Conjugium : been agreeably modernized by the late Mr. Spence, in his little miscellaneous publication, intitled, "Moralities, &c. by Sir Harry Beaumont," 1753, 8vo. pag. 42. The following stanzas are extracted from an ancient poem intitled "Albion's England," written by W. Warner, a celebrated poet in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, though his name and works are now equally forgotten. The reader will find some account of him in Series II. Book ii. No. 24. |