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He had reached London before nine in one of the King's barges that came from Greenwich to take musicians back that night at four. He had breakfasted with the Lady Mary's women at six off warm small beer and fresh meat, but it was eleven already, and he had spent all his money upon good letters. He muttered: 'Pauper sum, pateor, fateor, quod Di dant fero, but it did not warm him.
He pulled a small book out of his pocket, ferreted among the leaves and then setting his eye near the page pointed out his beloved line: 'Pauper sum, pateor, fateor, quod Di dant fero. Which had been translated: 'I am poor, I confess; I bear it, and what the gods vouchsafe that I take' and on the broad margin of the book had written: 'Cicero sayeth: That one cannot sufficiently praise them that be patient having little: And Seneca: The first measure of riches is to have things necessary and, as ensueth therefrom, to be therewith content!
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