V. My Mind to Me a Kingdom is. .............................................................................
This excellent philosophical song appears to have been famous in the sixteenth
century. It is quoted by Ben Jonson in his play ofEvery Man out of his Humour, first
acted in 1599, act i. sc. i. where an impatient person says,
"I am no such pil'd cynique to believe
That beggery is the onely happinesse,
Or, with a number of these patient fooles,
To sing, 'My minde to me a kingdoms is,'
When the lanke hungrie belly barkes for foode."
It is here chiefly printed from a thin quarto music hook, intitled "Psalmes,
Sonets, and Songs of sadnes and pietie, made into Musicke of five parts: &c. By
William Byrd, one of the Gent. of the Queenes Majesties honorable Chappell. Printed
by Thomas East, &c." 4to. no date: but Ames in his Typog. has mentioned another
edit. of the same book, dated 1588, which I take to have been later than this.
Some improvements and an additional stanza (sc. the 5th), were had, from two
other ancient copies; one of them in black-letter in the Pepys Collection, thus
inscribed, "A sweet and pleasant sonet, intitledMy Minde to me a Kingdom is.To the
tune ofIn Crete," &c." Some of the stanzas in this poem were printed by Byrd
separate from the rest they are here given in what seemed the most natural order.
My minde to me a kingdome is;
Such perfect joy therein I finde
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse,
That God or Nature hath assignde:
Though much I want, that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
Content I live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I presse to beare no haughtie sway;
Look what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
I see how plentie surfets oft,
And hastie clymbers soonest fall:
I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all:
These get with toile, and keep with feare:
Such cares my mind could never beare.
No princely pompe, nor welthie store,
No force to winne the victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,
No shape to winne a lovers eye;
To none of these I yeeld as thrall,
For why my mind despiseth all.
Some have too much, yet still they crave,
I little have, yet seek no more:
They are but poore, tho' much they have