44 THE QUIET LIFE. THE QUIET LIFE. HAPPY the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Sound sleep by night; study and ease Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. Alexander Pope. THE LORD OF SELF. 45 THE LORD OF SELF. How happy is he born and taught Whose passions not his masters are, Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed; Who God doth late and early pray -This Man is freed from servile bands Sir Henry Wotton. 46 THE MODERATE WISHER. THE MODERATE WISHER. THIS only grant me, that my means may lie Some honour I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone; Rumour can ope the grave: Acquaintance I would have; but when't depends Books should, not business, entertain the light, Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use; no luxury. My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Thus would I double my life's fading space, These unbought sports, that happy state, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to-day. A. Corley. THE STEDFAST LIFE. 47 THE STEDFAST LIFE. WHO is the honest man? He that doth still, and strongly, good pursue; Whose honesty is not So loose or easy that a ruffling wind Who, when great trials come, What place, or person calls for, he doth pay. Whom none can work, or woo, To use in any thing a trick or sleight; For above all things he abhors deceit. His words, and works, and fashion, too, All of one piece; and all are clear and straight. Who never melts or thaws At close temptations. When the day is done, 48 THE PERFECT LIFE. Who, when he is to treat With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, Whom others' faults do not defeat; But though men fail him, yet his part doth play. Whom nothing can procure, When the wide world runs bias, from his will Who still is right, and prays to be so still. George Herbert. THE PERFECT LIFE. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— B. Jonson. |