POEM BY SIR EDWARD DYER.
Dr. Rimbault's 4th Qu. (No. 19. p. 302.).—"My mind to me a kingdom is" will be found to be of much earlier date than Nicholas Breton. Percy partly printed it from William Byrds's Psalmes, Sonets, and Songs of Sadnes (no date, but 1588 according to Ames), with some additions and improvements (?) from a B.L. copy in the Pepysian collection. I have met with it in some early poetical miscellany—perhaps Tottel, or England's Helicon—but cannot just now refer to either.
The following copy is from a cotemporary MS. containing many of the poems of Sir Edward Dyer, Edward Earl of Oxford, and their cotemporaries, several of which have never been published. The collection appears to have been made by Robert Mills, of Cambridge. Dr. Rimbault will, no doubt, be glad to compare this text with Breton's. It is, at least, much more genuine than the composite one given by Bishop Percy.
"My mynde to me a kyngdome is,
Suche preasente joyes therin I fynde,
That it excells all other blisse,
That earth affordes or growes by kynde;
Thoughe muche I wante which moste would have,
Yet still my mynde forbiddes to crave.
"No princely pompe, no wealthy store,
No force to winne the victorye,
No wilye witt to salve a sore,
No shape to feade a loving eye;
To none of these I yielde as thrall,
For why? my mynde dothe serve for all.
"I see howe plenty suffers ofte,
And hasty clymers sone do fall,
I see that those which are alofte
Mishapp dothe threaten moste of all;
They get with toyle, they keepe with feare,
Suche cares my mynde coulde never beare.
"Content to live, this is my staye,
I seeke no more than maye suffyse,
I presse to beare no haughty swaye;
Look what I lack, my mynde supplies;
Lo, thus I triumph like a kynge,
Content with that my mynde doth bringe.
"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 payne;
No worldly wants my mynde can toss,
My state at one dothe still remayne:
I feare no foe, I fawn no friende,
I lothe not lyfe nor dreade my ende.
"Some weighe their pleasure by theyre luste,
Theyre wisdom by theyre rage of wyll,
Theyre treasure is theyre onlye truste,
A cloked 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 chiefe defence,
I neither seek by brybes to please,
Nor by deceyte to breede offence;
Thus do I lyve, thus will I dye,
Would all did so as well as I.
"FINIS. [Symbol: CROWN] E. DIER."
S.W.S.