I weigh not Fortune’s frown nor smile,
I tremble not at noise of war,
I quake not at the thunder’s crack,
I shrink not at a blazing star,
I sound not at the news of wreck,
I fear no loss, I hope no gain,
I envy none, I none disdain.
I see Ambition never pleased,
I see some Tantals starve in store,
I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased,
I see each Midas gape for more:
I neither want nor yet abound,
Enough’s a feast, content is crowned.
I feign not friendship where I hate,
I fawn not on the great for grace,
I prize, I praise a mean estate
Ne yet too lofty, nor too base,
This is all my choice, my cheer—
A mind content and conscience clear.
From Thomas Morley’s Madrigals to Four Voices, 1600.
I will no more come to thee
From Robert Jones’ First Book of Songs and Airs, 1601.
If fathers knew but how to leave
Women confess they must obey,
We men will needs be servants still;
We kiss their hands, and what they say
We must commend, be’t ne’er so ill:
Thus we, like fools, admiring stand
Her pretty foot and pretty hand.
We blame their pride, which we increase
By making mountains of a mouse;
We praise because we know we please;
Poor women are too credulous
To think that we admiring stand
Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.