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,

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For why? my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave,
I little have, yet seek no more:

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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.

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I laugh not at anothers losse,

I grudge not at anothers gaine;
No worldly wave my mind can tosse,

I brooke that is another's bane:

I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend;
I lothe not life, nor dread mine end.

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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.

The subject of this tale is taken from that entertaining Colloquy of Erasmus, intitled, Uxor Meμiyaμos, sive Conjugium:' which has 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 Q. Elizabeth, though his name and works are now equally forgotten. The Reader will find some account of him in Vol. II. Book II. Song 24.

The following stanzas are printed from the author's improved edition of his work, printed in 1602, 4to.; the third impression of which appeared so early as 1592, in bl. let. 4to.-The edition in 1602 is in thirteen Books; and so it is reprinted in 1612, 4to. ; yet, in 1606, was published 'A Continuance of Albion's England, by the first author, W. W. Lond. 4to.:' this contains Books xiv. xv. xvi. In Ames's Typography, is preserved the memory of another publication of this writer's, intitled, 'Warner's Poetry,' printed in 1586, 12mo, and reprinted in 1602. There is also extant, under the name of Warner, 'Syrinx, or seven fold Hist. pleasant, and profitable, comical and tragical.' 4to. It is proper to premise, that the following lines were not written by the Author in stanzas, but in long Alexandrines of 14 syllables; which the narrowness of our page made it here necessary to subdivide.

IMPATIENCE chaungeth smoke to flame,
But jelousie is hell;

Some wives by patience have reduc'd

Ill husbands to live well:

As did the ladie of an earle,

Of whom I now shall tell.

An earle [there was] had wedded, lov'd;
Was lov'd, and lived long

Full true to his fayre countesse; yet
At last he did her wrong.

Once hunted he untill the chace,
Long fasting, and the heat

Did house him in a peakish graunge
Within a forest great.

Where knowne and welcom'd (as the place
And persons might afforde)

Browne bread, whig, bacon, curds and milke
Were set him on the borde.

A cushion made of lists, a stoole

Halfe backed with a hoope

Were brought him, and he sitteth down
Besides a sorry coupe.

The poore old couple wisht their bread
Were wheat, their whig were perry,

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Their bacon beefe, their milke and curds
Were creame, to make him merry.

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Meane while (in russet neatly clad,

With linen white as swanne,

Herselfe more white, save rosie where

The ruddy colour ranne:

Whome naked nature, not the aydes

Of arte made to excell)

The good man's daughter sturres to see

That all were feat and well;

The earle did marke her, and admire

Such beautie there to dwell.

Yet fals he to their homely fare,

And held him at a feast:

But as his hunger slaked, so

An amorous heat increast.

When this repast was past, and thanks,

And welcome too; he sayd

Unto his host and hostesse, in

The hearing of the mayd:

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'Yee know,' quoth he, that I am lord Of this, and many townes;

I also know that you be poore,

And I can spare you pownes.

Soe will I, so yee will consent,
That yonder lasse and I

May bargaine for her love; at least,

Doe give me leave to trye.

Who needs to know it? nay who dares

Into my doings pry?'

First they mislike, yet at the length

For lucre were misled;

And then the gamesome earle did wowe
The damsell for his bed.

He took her in his armes, as yet

So coyish to be kist,

As mayds that know themselves belov'd,

And yieldingly resist.

In few, his offers were so large

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