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, 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; Whose state 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 harmless day 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. Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639 180. Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife HE first deceased; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died. Sir John Davies. 1569-1626 181. Man I KNOW my soul hath power to know all things, Yet she is blind and ignorant in all: I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. I know my life 's a pain and but a span; I know my sense is mock'd in everything; And, to conclude, I know myself a Man-- Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638 182. To His Forsaken Mistress I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none. The morning rose that untouch'd stands Arm'd with her briers, how sweet she smells! But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwells: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one. Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none. Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638 183. To an Inconstant One I LOVED thee once; I'll love no more-- Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away!