M. What good? C. The best.
M. And how? C. By warie eye.
M. Whose eye is that?
C. The eye of perfect sight.
M. Who beares that eye?
C. The head that hath me nie.
M. Whose head is that?
C. Each one that loves delight.
M. But what delight?
C. That longest doth endure.
M. Oh, Care. C. I come,
Thy comfort to procure.
M. Whence dost thou come?
C. I come from loftie skie.
M. When camst thou thence?
C. Even now. M. Who sent thee so?
C. The gods. M. Whereto?
C. To comfort Miserie.
M. But how? C. By Wit.
To worke his ease of wo.
M. What wo? C. The worst.
M. Whats that? C. The griefe of mind.
M. Oh. C. Feare not, Care
Will quickly comfort find.
Wit. Beleeve me, I like it well: but is Care so comfortable: yea, indeed is it. Care is both a corsi[v]e and a comfort, all is in the use of it. Care is such a thing, as hath a great a doo in all things: why Care is a king in his kind. Did you never heare my discourse of Care in verse?
Will. No, that I remember: if it be not long, I pray you rehearse it. And for my better remembrance, henceforth, I will write it. Wit. Then give eare, thus it was.
THE SONG OF CARE
Come, all the world, submit your selves to Care,
And him acknowledge for your chiefest king:
With whom no King or Keisar may compare,
Who beares so great a sway in every thing.
At home, abroad, in peace, and eke in warre,
Care chiefly stands to either make or marre.
The court he keepes is in a wise conceit,
His house a head, where reason rules the wit:
His seate the heart that hateth all deceit,
His bed, the braine, that feels no frantick fit,
His diet is the cates of sweet content:
Thus is his life in heavenly pleasure spent.
His kingdome is the whole world round about,
Sorrow his sword, to such as do rebell:
His counsaile, wisedome, that decides each doubt,
His skill, foresight: of things to come, to tell.
His chiefe delight is studies of devise,
To keepe his subjects out of miseries.