THE LORD OF SELF.

45

THE LORD OF SELF.

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice. Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state; but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend;

-This Man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath All.

Sir Henry Wotton.

46

THE MODERATE WISHER.

THE MODERATE WISHER.

THIS only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honour I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Th' unknown are better than ill-known.

Rumour can ope the grave:

Acquaintance I would have; but when't depends
Not on the number, but the choice of friends.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night.
My house a cottage, more

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,
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space,
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, that happy state,
I would not fear nor wish my fate,

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. Cowley.

THE STEDFAST LIFE.

47

THE STEDFAST LIFE.

WHO is the honest man?

He that doth still, and strongly, good pursue;
To God, his neighbour, and himself most true.
Whom neither force nor fawning can
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due.

Whose honesty is not

So loose or easy that a ruffling wind
Can blow away, or glitt'ring look it blind.
Who rides his sure and even trot,
While the world now rides by, now lags behind.

Who, when great trials come,

Nor seeks, nor shuns them; but doth calmly stay
Till he the thing, and the example weigh.
All being brought into a sum,

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,
His goodness sets not, but in dark can run.
The sun to others writeth laws,
And is their virtue. Virtue is his sun.

48

THE PERFECT LIFE.

Who, when he is to treat

With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway,
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way.
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
To writhe his limbs; and share, not mend, the ill.
This is the mark-man, safe and sure,

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,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night—
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

B. Jonson.

THE VIRTUOUS SOUL.

49

THE VIRTUOUS SOUL.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

G. Herbert.

4

Elder Poets.