Content MY MINDE TO ME A KINGDOME IS. FROM PERCY'S RELIQUES. My minde to me a kingdome is; That God or Nature hath assignde: Though much I want, that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. Content I live, this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice; I presse to beare no haughtie sway; Look what I lack my mind supplies. Loe! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. I see how plentie surfets oft, And hastie clymbers soonest fall: I see that such as sit aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all: These get with toile, and keep with feare: No princely pomp, nor welthie store, No shape to winne a lover's eye; Some have too much, yet still they crave, They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; I laugh not at another's losse, I grudge not at another's gaine; I joy not in no earthly blisse; I weigh not Cresus' welth a straw; For care, I care not what it is; I feare not fortune's fatall law: My mind is such as may not move For beautie bright or force of love. I wish but what I have at will; I like the plain, I clime no hill; In greatest storms I sitte on shore, And laugh at them that toile in vaine To get what must be lost againe. I kisse not where I wish to kill; I feigne not love where most I hate: The court, ne cart, I like, ne loath; Extreames are counted worst of all: My welth is health, and perfect ease; I never seek by brybes to please, Nor by desert to give offence: Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I! Contentment gives a crown, Thomas Ford. THE QUIET MIND. BY JOHN CLARE. THOUGH low my lot, my wish is won, If I have foes, no foes I fear; I have a friend I value here- I wish not it was mine to wear I only wish the bliss of life- The trumpet's taunt in battle field, What peace can all their honours yield, And what are they to me? Though praise and pomp, to me the strife Rave like a mighty wind What are they to the calm of life- I mourn not that my lot is low, What all at least shall find, I see the great pass heedless by, For either wealth or power: I never mock'd at beauty's shrine, No knighthood's fame, or luck was mine, To win love's richest prize: And yet I found in russet weed, What all will wish to find. True love, and comfort's prize indeed |