Puslapio vaizdai
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So earth falls down, and fire doth mount Who ever ceased to wish when he had above,

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wealth?

Or having wisdom was not vexed in

mind?

Then as a bee, which among weeds doth | There is she crowned with garlands of

fall,

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This honey tasted still, is ever sweet; OF this fair volume which we World do The pleasure of her ravished thought is

such,

As almost here she with her bliss doth meet.

But when in heaven she shall his essence

see,

This is her sovereign good, and perfect bliss,

Her longings, wishings, hopes, all finished be,

Her joys are full, her motions rest in this.

name

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SIR HENRY WOTTON.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold,

Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best,

On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold;

Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,

It is some picture on the margin wrought.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

[1568 - 1639.]

TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF

BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light! You common people of the skies! What are you, when the sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your voices understood

By your weak accents! what's 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 year,

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, a Queen! Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind?

THE GOOD MAN.

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

Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death,

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW.

Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath;

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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 rumors 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.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW.
[About 1613.]

REVENGE OF INJURIES.

THE fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;
For who forgives without a further strife,
His adversary's heart to him doth tie;
And 't is a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done; But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:

Great hearts are tasked beyond their power but seld;

The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow; High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

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WILLIAM BYRD.

Of a clear conscience, that (without all I see how plenty surfeits oft,

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And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see that such as sit aloft

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Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toil, and keep with fear; Such cares my mind could never bear.

No princely pomp nor wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a lover's eye,
To none of these I yield as thrall;
For why, my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they
have;

And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss;

I brook that is another's bane. I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly bliss;

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is;

I fear not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;
I wander not to seek for more;
I like the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;
I feign not love where most I hate;
I break no sleep to win my will;
I wait not at the mighty's gate.
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

The court nor cart I like nor loathe;

Extremes are counted worst of all; The golden mean betwixt them both

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall; This is my choice; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

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