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But who is yond, thou lady faire,

That looketh with sic an austerne face?
Yonder is Sir John Foster,1 quoth shee,
Alas! he'll do ye sore disgrace.

He pulled his hatt down over his browe;
He wept; in his heart he was full of woe:
And he is gone to his noble Lord,

Those sorrowful tidings him to show.

Now nay, now nay, good James Swynàrd,
I may not believe that witch ladie :
The Douglasses were ever true,
And they can ne'er prove false to mee.

I have now in Lough-leven been
The most part of these years three,
Yett have I never had noe outrake,
Ne no good games that I cold see.

Therefore I'll to yon shooting wend,
As to the Douglas I have hight:
Betide me weale, betide me woe,

He ne'er shall find my promise light.

He writhe a gold ring from his finger,
And gave itt to that gay ladìe:
Sayes, It was all that I cold save,

In Harley woods where I cold bec.2

And wilt thou goe, thou noble lord,
Then farewell truth and honestìe;
And farewell heart and farewell hand;
For never more I shall thee see.

The wind was faire, the boatmen call'd,
And all the saylors were on borde;
Then William Douglas took to his boat,
And with him went that noble lord.

Then he cast up a silver wand,
Says, Gentle lady, fare thee well!

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,
A sickness hath taken yond faire ladìe;
If ought befall yond lady but good,

Then blamed for ever I shall bee.

Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes;
Come on, come on, and let her bee:
There's ladyes enow in Lough-leven
For to cheere that gay ladie.

If you'll not turne yourself, my lord,
Let me goe with my chamberlaine;
We will but comfort that faire lady,

And wee will return to you againe.

Come on, come on, my lord, he sayes,
Come on, come on, and let her bee:
My sister is craftye, and wold beguile
A thousand such as you and mee.

When they had sayled1 fifty myle,
Now fifty mile upon the sea;
Hee sent his man to ask the Douglas,
When they shold that shooting see.

Faire words, quoth he, they make fooles faine,
And that by thee and thy lord is seen:
You may hap to thinke itt soone enough,
Ere you that shooting reach, I ween.

Jamye his hatt pulled over his browe,

He thought his lord then was betray'd;
And he is to Erle Percy againe,

To tell him what the Douglas sayd.

Hold upp thy head, man, quoth his lord;
Nor therefore lett thy courage fayle,

He did it but to prove thy heart,
To see if he cold make it quail.

When they had other fifty sayld,
Other fifty mile upon the sea,

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:
Looke that your spurres be bright and sharpe,
That you may pricke her while she'll away.

What needeth this, Douglas? he sayth;
What needest thou to flyte with mee?
For I was counted a horseman good
Before that ever I mett with thee.

A false Hector hath my horse,

Who dealt with mee so treacherouslìe:
A false Armstrong hath my spurres,
And all the geere belongs to mee.

When they had sayled other fifty mile,
Other fifty mile upon the sea;

They landed low by Berwicke side,

A deputed 'laird'1 landed Lord Percye.

Then he at Yorke was doomde to dye,
It was, alas! a sorrowfull sight:
Thus they betrayed that noble earle,
Who ever was a gallant wight.

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
That beggery is the onely happinesse,

Or, with a number of these patient fooles,
To sing, 'My minde to me a kingdome is,'
When the lanke hungrie belly barkes for foode.

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
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse,

That God or Nature hath assignde:
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 presse to beare no haughtie sway;
Look what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft,

And hastie clymbers soonest fall:
I see that such as sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all:
These get with toile, and keep with feare:
Such cares my mind could never beare.

No princely pompe, nor welthie store,
No force to winne the victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,

No shape to winne a lovers eye;
To none of these I yeeld 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 poore, tho' much they have;
And I am rich with little store:

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at anothers losse,

I grudge not at anothers gaine;
No worldly wave my mind can tosse,
I brooke that is anothers bane:
I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I lothe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse;

I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;

I feare not fortunes fatall law:
My mind is such as may not move
For beautie bright or force of love.
I wish but what I have at will;

I wander not to seeke for more;
I like the plaine, I clime no hill;

In greatest stormes I sitte on shore,
And laugh at them that toile in vaine
To get what must be lost againe.

I kisse not where I wish to kill;

I feigne not love where most I hate;
I breake no sleep to winne my will;
I wayte not at the mighties gate;
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich;
I feele no want, nor have too much.
The court, ne cart, I like, ne loath;

Extreames are counted worst of all:
The golden meane betwixt them both
Doth surest sit, and fears no fall:
This is my choyce, for why I finde,
No wealth is like a quiet minde.

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:
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I !

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.

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