XI.[_]
The attribution of this poem is questionable.
[Though far from joy, my sorrowes are as far]
Though far from joy, my sorrowes are as far,
And I both betweene:
Not too low, nor yet too high
Above my reach, would I bee seene.
Happy is he that so is placed,
Not to be envi'd, nor to bee disdain'd or disgraced.
The higher trees, the more stormes they endure,
Shrubs be troden downe:
But the meane, the golden meane,
Doth onely all our fortunes crowne:
Like to a streame that sweetely slideth
Through the flourie banks, and still in the midst his course guideth.
