Analysis of Of the Mean and Sure Estate



My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse,
That, for because her livelood was but thin,

Would needs go seek her townish sister's house.
She thought herself endurèd too much pain;
The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse

That when the furrows swimmèd with the rain,
She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight;
And worse than that, bare meat there did remain

To comfort her when she her house had dight;
Sometime a barley corn; sometime a bean;
For which she laboured hard both day and night

In harvest time whilst she might go and glean;
And where store was stroyèd with the flood,
Then well away! for she undone was clean.

Then was she fain to take instead of food
Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile.
'My sister,' quod she, 'hath a living good,

And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile.
In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry
In bed of down; the dirt doth not defile

Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I.
Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost,
And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry.

By sea, by land, of the delicates, the most
Her cater seeks, and spareth for no peril.
She feedeth on boiled bacon meet and roast,

And hath thereof neither charge nor travail;
And when she list, the liquor of the grape
Doth glad her heart till that her belly swell.'

And at this journey she maketh but a jape;
So forth she goeth, trusting of all this wealth
With her sister her part so for to shape,

That if she might keep herself in health,
To live a lady while her life doth last.
And to the door now is she come by stealth,

And with her foot anon she scrapeth full fast.
Th' other for fear durst not well scarce appear,
Of every noise so was the wretch aghast.

At last she askèd softly who was there.
And in her language, as well as she could,
'Peep!' quod the other. 'Sister, I am here.'

'Peace,' quod the towny mouse, 'why speakest thou so loud?'
And by the hand she took her fair and well.
'Welcome,' quod she, 'my sister, by the Rood!'

She feasted her, that joy it was to tell
The fare they had; they drank the wine so clear,
And as to purpose now and then it fell,

She cheerèd her with 'How, sister, what cheer!'
Amids this joy befell a sorry chance,
That, well away! the stranger bought full dear

The fare she had, for, as she look askance,
Under a stool she spied two steaming eyes
In a round head with sharp ears. In France

Was never mouse so fear'd, for the unwise
Had not i-seen such a beast before,
Yet had nature taught her after her guise

To know her foe and dread him evermore.
The towny mouse fled, she know whither to go;
Th' other had no shift, but wonders sore

Feard of her life. At home she wished her tho,
And to the door, alas! as she did skip,
The Heaven it would, lo! and eke her chance was so,

At the threshold her silly foot did trip;
And ere she might recover it again,
The traitor cat had caught her by the hip,

And made her there against her will remain,
That had forgotten her poor surety and rest
For seeming wealth wherein she thought to reign.

Alas, my Poynz, how men do seek the best
And find the worst, by error as they stray!
And no marvail; when sight is so opprest.

And blind the guide; anon out of the way
Goeth guide and all in seeking quiet life.
O wretched minds, there is no gold that may

Grant that ye seek; no war, no peace, no strife.
No, no, although thy head were hooped with gold,
Sergeant with mace, hawbert, sword, nor knife,

Cannot repulse the care that follow should.
Each kind of life hath with him his disease.
Live in delight even as thy lust would,

And thou shalt find, when lust doth most thee please,
It irketh straight and by itself doth fade.
A small thing it is that may thy mind appease.

None of ye all there is that is so mad
To seek grapes upon brambles or breres;
Nor none, I trow, that hath his wit so bad

To set his hay for conies over rivers,
Ne ye set not a drag-net for an hare;
And yet the thing that most is your desire

Ye do mis-seek with more travail and care.
Make plain thine heart, that it be not knotted
With hope or dread, and see thy will be bare

From all affects, whom vice hath ever spotted.
Thyself content with that is thee assigned,
And use it well that is to thee allotted.

Then seek no more out of thyself to find
The thing that thou hast sought so long before,


Scheme ABA BCB CDC DED EFE GHI HJH JXJ KXK XLM LNL NON OPO QIX XMG MPM PRP RSR STS TUT UVU VXV CWC WXD XYX YXY IZI ZXZ 1 B1 XQX Q2 Q F3 2 3 T
Poetic Form
Metre 1101111101 111011011 110101111 111101101 110111111 0101011111 110111101 1111010101 0111111101 1100110111 10101101 111111101 0101111101 011111101 1101110111 1111110111 1111010101 1101110101 011111101 010111101 011101111 010111111 101101011 0101111111 111110101 0101011110 111110101 011101101 0111010101 1101110101 0111011101 1111101111 1010011111 111110101 1101010111 0101111111 010111111 111011111101 11001110101 1111110111 0001011111 1101010111 1101111111 0101110101 1011110101 1100111111 0111110111 0111010111 1110111011 111010101 1101010111 0111111101 1001111101 001111101 1101111001 111110101 1110101001 110101110 0111111011 11101111101 1101111101 0101011111 010111010111 101010111 0111010101 0101110101 0101010101 110100110001 1101011111 0111111101 0101110111 01111111 010111101 1101010101 1101111111 1111111111 111110111 10111111 1001011101 1111111101 1001101111 0111111111 111010111 01111111101 1111111111 111011011 1111111111 1111111010 1111011111 01011111010 1111110101 1111111110 1111011111 11011111010 110111101 01111111010 111111111 0111111101
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 4,225
Words 851
Sentences 39
Stanzas 33
Stanza Lengths 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 2
Lines Amount 98
Letters per line (avg) 34
Words per line (avg) 9
Letters per stanza (avg) 100
Words per stanza (avg) 26
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

4:14 min read
124

David McKee Wright

David McKee Wright was an Irish-born poet and journalist, active in New Zealand and Australia. more…

All David McKee Wright poems | David McKee Wright Books

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