Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet 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 lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain:
No worldly wave my mind can toss,
I brook that is another's bane:

I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I wish but what I have at will,
I wander not to seek for more,

I like the plain, I climb no hill,

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain, To get what must be lost again.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
My conscience clear my chief defense;

I never seek by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to give offense;
Thus do I live, thus will I die,
Would all did so as well as I.

WILLIAM BYRD.

The Lye.

GOE, Soule, the bodie's guest,
Upon a thanklesse arrant;
Feare not to touche the best-
The truth shall be thy warrant!
Goe, since I needs must dye,
And give the world the lye.

Goe tell the court it glowes

And shines like rotten wood; . Goe tell the church it showes What 's good, and doth no good; If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live

Acting by others' actionsNot loved unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lye.

Tell them that brave it most

They beg for more by spending,

Who in their greatest cost

Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lye.

Tell zeale it lacks devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lye.

Tell age it daily wasteth;

Tell honour how it alters;

Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how she falters:
And as they then reply,
Give each of them the lye.

Tell wit how much it wrangles

In tickle points of nicenesse; Tell wisdome she entangles Herselfe in over-wisenesse; And if they do reply,

Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse;

Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldnesse;
Tell law it is contention;
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindnesse;

Tell justice of delay;

And if they dare reply,

Then give them all the lye.

Tell arts they have no soundnesse,
But vary by esteeming;

Tell schooles they want profoundnesse,
And stand too much on seeming;

If arts and schooles reply,
Give arts and schooles the lye.

Tell faith it's fled the citie;

Tell how the country erreth;

Tell, manhood shakes off pitie;
Tell, vertue least preferreth;

And if they do reply,

Spare not to give the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing—

Although to give the lye

Deserves no less than stabbing—

Yet stab at thee who will,

No stab the soule can kill.

SIR WALTER RALEIGII.

Lament for Sir Philip Sidney.

You knew-who knew not Astrophel?
That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!—
Things known permit me to renew.
Of him you know his merit such
I cannot say—you hear—too much.

Within these woods of Arcady

He chief delight and pleasure took;
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The muses met him every day,—
Taught him to sing, and write, and say.

When he descended down the mount
His personage seemed most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne.
To hear him speak, and see him smile,
You were in Paradise the while.

A sweet, attractive kind of grace;
A full assurance given by looks;

Continual comfort in a face;

The lineaments of gospel books:
I trow that countenance cannot lie
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.

Above all others this is he

Who erst approved in his song
That love and honor might agree,

And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame
To love a man of virtuous name.

Did never love so sweetly breathe
In any mortal breast before;
Did never muse inspire beneath
A poet's brain with finer store.
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beauty reared above her height.

MATHEW ROYDON

Man's Mortality.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossoms on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man-he dies!

Like to the grass that 's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that 's new begun,