Sir Henry Wotton.
YOU meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than
You common people of the skies;
What are you when the moon shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Natures lays,
Thinking your passions
By your weak accents; whats your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice,
Tell me, if she were not designd
Th eclipse and glory of her kind
HOW happy is he born and taught
That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the
world by care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor 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;
can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the
With a religious 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.
HE first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.
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