Some have too muche, yet still do crave;

I little have, and seek no more.

They are but poore, though muche they have,
And I am ryche with lyttle store;
They poore, I ryche; they begge, I gyve;
They lacke, I leave; they pyne, I lyve.

I laughe not at another's losse,
I grudge not at another's gayne;
No worldly waues my mynde can toss:
My state at one dothe still remayne:
I fear no foe, I fawn no friende;
I loathe not lyfe, nor dread my ende.

Some weighe their pleasure by theyre luste,
Theyre wisdom by theyre rage of wyll;
Theyre treasure is theyre only truste,

A clokèd crafte theyre store of skylle.
But all the pleasure that I fynde
Is to mayntayne a quiet mynde.

My wealthe is healthe and perfect ease;
My conscience cleere my choice defence;
I neither seeke by brybes to please

Nor by deceyte to breede offence;
Thus do I lyve, thus will I dye;

Would all did so well as I.

SIR EDWARD DYER.

SONG: WHO FINDS A WOMAN GOOD

AND WISE

I

WHO finds a Woman good and wise,
A gemme more worth then Pearls hath got:
Her Husbands heart on her relies:
To liue by spoyle he needeth not.
His comfort all his life is she.
No wrong she willingly will doe:
For Woole and Flax her searches be:
And cheerefull hands she puts there to.

II

The Merchant-ship resembling right,
Her food she from a farre doth set.
E're day she wakes, that giue she might
Her maids their taske, her houshold meat.

A field she viewes and that she buyes;
Her hand doth plant a vine yard there,
Her loynes with courage up she tyes;
Her Armes with vigor strengthened are.

III

If in her worke she profit feele,
By night her Candle goes not out;
She puts her finger to the wheele,
Her hand the spindle twirls about.
To such as poore and needy are,
Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she:
The winter none of hers doth feare,
For, double cloath'd her houshold be.

IV

She Mantles maketh, wrought by hand:
And silke and purple clothing gets:
Among the Rulers of the Land

(Knowne in the Gate) her husband sits.
For Sale, fine Linnen weaueth she,
And girdles to the Marchant sends:
Renowne and strength her clothings be,
And ioy her later time, attends.

V

She speakes discreetly when she talkes;
The law of Grace her tongue hath learn'd:
She heeds the way her houshold walkes,
And feedeth not on bread un-earn'd.

Her children rise, and blest her call:
Her Husband thus applaudeth her;
Oh! thou hast farre surpast them all,
Though many Daughters thriving are.

VI

Deceitfull Fauour quickly weares,
And Beauty suddenly decayes:
But, if the Lord she truly feares
That woman well deserueth praise.
The fruit her handy-worke obtaines,
Without repining grant her that:
And yeeld her what her labour gaines,
To doe her honour in the Gate.

GEORGE WITHER.

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS

HOUSE

LORD, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble Roof
Is weather-proof;

Under the sparres of which I lie
Both soft, and drie;

Where Thou my chamber for to ward
Hast set a Guard

Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my Fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my doore
Is worn by th' poore,

Who thither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat:
Like as my Parlour, so my Hall
And Kitchin's small:

A little Butterie, and therein
A little Byn,

Which keeps my little loafe of Bread
Unchipt, unflead:

Some brittle sticks of Thorne or Briar
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coale I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confesse too, when I dine,
The Pulse is Thine,

And all those other Bits, that bee
There plac'd by Thee;

The Worts, the Purslain, and the Messe
Of Water-cresse,

Which of Thy kindnesse Thou hast sent;
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved Beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering Hearth With guiltlesse mirth;

And giv'st me Wassaile Bowles to drink,
Spic'd to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand,
That soiles my land;

And giv'st me, for my Bushel sowne,
Twice ten for one.

Thou mak'st my teeming Hen to lay
Her egg each day:

Besides my healthful Ewes to beare
Me twins each yeare:

The while the conduits of my Kine
Run Creame, (for Wine.)

All these, and better Thou dost send
Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,
A thankfull heart;

Which, fir'd with incense, I resigne,
As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.