Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;
Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great.

Who GoD doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend:

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile hands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of land
And having nothing, yet hath all.

THE CONTENTED MAN'S SONG. From HUGH COMPTON'S "Pierides; or the Muses' Mount." I HAVE no riches, neither know I where the mines of silver grow; The golden age I cannot find

Yet there is plenty in my mind;

'Tis wealth I crave, 'tis wealth that I require, Yet there's no wealth to fill my vain desire, Nor hopes thereof to still my craving lyre.

What shall I do in such a case?

I am accounted mean and base:
Both friends and strangers frown on me,
'Cause I am gall'd with poverty.

Well, let them frown; yet I will not lament
Nor value them; though fortune has not lent
To me her blessing, yet I am content.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN?

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

JAMES SHIRLEY, born 1594, died 1666.

THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things.

There is no armour against fate:

Death lays his icy hands on kings.

Sceptre, and crown,

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield—
They tame but one another still.

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow-
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,

See where the victor-victim bleeds:
All heads must come

To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW.

Anonymous. A.D. 1666.

From a black-letter copy among the Roxburgh Songs and Ballads.

WHEN this old cap was new

"T is since two hundred year

No malice then we knew,

But all things plenty were:
All friendship now decays,
(Believe me, this is true)
Which was not in those days,
When this old cap was new.

The nobles of our land

Were much delighted then
To have at their command

A crew of lusty men;

Which by their coats were known,

Of tawny, red, or blue,

With crests on their sleeves shown,
When this old cap was new.

Now pride hath banish'd all,

Unto our lands reproach,

When he whose means are small
Maintains both horse and coach;

Instead of an hundred men,

The coach allows but two;

This was not thought on then,

When this old cap was new.

Where'er you travell'd then,
You might meet on the way
Brave knights and gentlemen,
Clad in their country grey,
That courteous would appear,

And kindly welcome you;

No puritans then were,

When this old cap was new.

Our ladies in those days,

In civil habit went;

Broad-cloth was then worth praise,
And gave the best content:
French fashions then were scorn'd,
Fond fangles then none knew ;

Then modesty women adorn'd
When this old cap was new.

I

A man might then behold,

At Christmas in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold,

And meat for great and small; The neighbours friendly bidden, And all had welcome true;

The poor from the gates not chidden, When this old cap was new.

Black-jacks to every man

Were filled with wine and beer;

No pewter pot, nor can,

In those days did appear:

Good cheer in a nobleman's house
Was counted a seemly show;
We wanted not brawn nor souse,
When this old cap was new.

We took not such delight

In cups of silver fine;

None, under the degree of knight,
In plate drank beer or wine:
Now each mechanical man

Hath a cupboard of plate for shew,

Which was a rare thing then,

When this old cap was new.

No captain then caroused,
Nor spent poor soldier's pay.
They were not so abused,
As they are at this day;
Of seven days they make eight,
To keep them from their due;
Poor soldiers had their right,

When this old cap was new.

Which made them forward still
To go, although not prest;
And going with good will,
Their fortunes were the best;

Our English then, in fight,
Did foreign foes subdue;
And forced them all to flight,

When this old cap was new.