Though still thou get’st, yet is thy want not spent, But, as thy wealth, so grows thy wealthy itch; But with my little I have much _content_-- _Content_ hath all; and who hath all, is rich: Then this in reason thou must needs confess-- If I have little, yet that thou hast less. Whatever man possesses, God hath lent, And to his audit liable is, ever, To reckon how, and when, and where he spent; Then this thou bragg’st--thou art a great receiver: Little my debt, when little is my store-- The more thou hast, the debt still grows the more. _Phineas Fletcher._ I grieve, and dare not show my dis_content_; I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate; I do, yet dare not say I ever meant, I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate: I am, and not, I freeze, and yet am burn’d, Since from myself my other self I turn’d. My care is like my shadow in the sun-- Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it; Stands and lies by me, does what I have done, This too-familiar care does make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it is suppress’d. Some gentler passions slide into my mind, For I am soft, and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind, Let me or float or sink, be high or low, Or let me live with some more sweet _content_, Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant. _Queen Elizabeth._ Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves, These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves: Now the wing’d people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring: A prayer book now shall be my looking-glass, In which I will adore sweet virtue’s face. Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares, No broken vows dwell here, no pale-faced fears: Then here I’ll sit, and sigh my hot love’s folly, And learn ’t affect an holy melancholy; And if _Contentment_ be a stranger then, I’ll ne’er look for it but in Heaven again. _Sir Henry Wotton._ There’s _discontent_ from sceptre to the swain, And from the peasant to the king again. Then whatsoever in thy will afflict thee, Or in thy pleasure seem to contradict thee, Give it a welcome as a wholesome friend, That would instruct thee to a better end. Since no condition from defect is free, Think not to find what here can never be. _Alexander Nicholas._ Unfit for greatness, I her snares defy, And look on riches with untainted eye. To others let the glittering baubles fall, _Content_ shall place us far above them all. _Churchill._