'O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:

But if
you will give me but three weekes space,
Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace."

'Now three weeks space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.'

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.

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Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shepheard a going to fold:
'How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
What newes do you bring us from good king John?'

'Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give;
That I have but three days more to live:
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodìe.

The first is to tell him, there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head,
Among all his liege men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about:
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke.'

Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?

Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee:
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne.'

'Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.'

Now welcome, sire abbot,' the king he did say,
"Tis well thou 'rt come back to keepe thy day;
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.'

For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told;
And twenty nine is the worth of thee,

For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.'

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,1
'I did not think I had been worth so littel!
-Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about.'

1 Meaning probably St. Botolph.

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You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;

And then your grace need not make any doubt,
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'

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The king he laughed, and swore 'by St. Jone,
I did not think, it could be gone so soone!
-Now from the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke.'

96

'Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.' 100

The king he laughed, and swore 'by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!'
'Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.'

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Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good king John.'

**

VII.

YOU MEANER BEAUTIES.

This little Sonnet was written by Sir Henry Wotton, Knight, on that amiable Princess, Elizabeth daughter of James I. and wife of the Elector Palatine, who was chosen King of Bohemia, Sept. 5, 1619.1 The consequences of this fatal election are well known. Sir Henry Wotton, who in that and the following year was employed in several embassies in Germany on behalf of this

1 See our life of Quarles.-ED.

unfortunate lady, seems to have had an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes, for he gave away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was presented to him by the Emperor, 'because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the Queen of Bohemia.' See Biog. Britan.

This song is printed from the 'Reliquiæ Wottonianæ,' 1651, with some corrections from an old MS. copy. It had been set to music and printed 1624.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfie our eies

More by your number, than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Moon shall rise?

Ye violets that first appeare,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the yeare,
As if the Spring were all your own;
What are you when the Rose is blown?

Ye curious chaunters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's layes,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents: what's your praise,
When Philomell her voyce shall raise?

So when my mistris shal be seene

In sweetnesse of her looks and minde;
By virtue first, then choyce a queen;
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th' eclypse and glory of her kind?

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VIII.

THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER.

This excellent old song, the subject of which is a comparison between the manners of the old gentry, as still subsisting in the times of Elizabeth, and the modern refinements affected by their sons in the reigns of her successors, is given, with corrections, from an ancient black-letter copy in the Pepys collection, compared with another printed among some miscellaneous poems and songs' in a book intitled, 'Le Prince d'amour,' 1660, 8vo. It was first printed in the reign of James First.

An old song made by an aged old pate,
AN

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Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a greate estate,

That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate;
Like an old courtier of the queen's,

And the queen's old courtier.

With an old lady, whose anger one word asswages; They every quarter paid their old servants their wages,

And never knew what belong'd to coachmen, footmen,

nor pages,

But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges;

Like an old courtier, &c.

With an old study fill'd full of learned old books, With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks.

With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen, that maintain'd half a dozen old

cooks:

Like an old courtier, &c.