Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And firft, quo' the king, when I'm in this ftead, Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How foone I may ride the whole world about; O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Now three weeks space to thee will I give, 25 30 35 40 Away rode the abbot all fad at that word, But never a doctor there was fo wife, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then Then home rode the abbot of comfort fo cold, 45 And he mett his fhepheard 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, fad newes, fhepheard, I muft give; That I have but three days more to live: 50 The first is to tell him there in that ftead, With his crowne of golde fo fair on his head, 55 To within one penny of what he is worth. The feconde, to tell him, without any doubt, Now cheare up, fire abbot, did you never hear yet, Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, X 4 60 65 Now Now horfes, and ferving-men thou shalt have, With fumptuous array most gallant and brave ; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope." Now welcome, fire abbot, the king he did fay, And first, when thou seeft me here in this ftead, "For thirty pence our Saviour was fold Amonge the falfe Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worfer than hee," The king he laughed, and fwore by St. Bittel *, 79 75 89 "You must rife with the fun, and ride with the fame, Until the next morning he rifeth againe ; 85 And * Meaning probably St. Botolph. And then your grace need not make any doubt, The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, -Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke. "Yea, that fhall I do, and make your grace merry : The king he laughed, and fwore by the maffe, 96 100 Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee, 105 For this merry jeft thou haft showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot when thou comeft home, VII. YOU 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 chofen King of Bohemia, Sept. 5. 1619. The confequences of this fatal · election are well known: Sir Henry Wotton, who in that and the following year was employed in feveral embassies in Germany on behalf of this unfortunate lady, feems to have bad an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes, for be gave away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was prefented to him by the Emperor," because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the Queen of Bohemia." See Biog. Britan. 66 This fong is printed from the Reliquiæ Wottonianæ 1651. with some corrections from an old MS. copy. OU meaner beauties of the night, YOU Which poorly fatisfie our eies More by your number, then your light; What are you when the Sun fhall rife? , 5 Ye |