Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.
THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.
MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find—
The riches left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind,
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom join'd with simpleness;
The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress;
The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleep as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate,
Nor wish for death, nor fear his might.
SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content :-
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent-
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown:
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride or care,
The mean that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare.
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
Robert Greene.
Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.
THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.
MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find—
The riches left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind,
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom join'd with simpleness;
The night discharged of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress;
The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleep as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate,
Nor wish for death, nor fear his might.
SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content :-
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent-
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown:
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride or care,
The mean that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare.
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
Robert Greene.
WELL then; I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city.
Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave,
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books; both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And, since love ne'er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian-angels are,
Only beloved, and loving me!
O, fountains! when in you shall I
Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?
Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood;
Where all the riches lie, that she
Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.
Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From Heaven did always choose their way;
And therefore we may boldly say
That 'tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I,
And one dear She, live, and embracing die!
She, who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fearLest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.
I IN these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise,
I with my angle will rejoice;
Sit here, and see the turtle-dove
Court his chaste mate to acts of love;
Or on that bank feel the west wind
Breathe health and plenty; please my mind
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then wash'd off by April showers;
Here, hear my Kenna sing a song;
There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Or, a laverock build her nest:
Here, give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love:
Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice.
Or, with my Bryan and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook;
There sit with him, and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set,
There bid good morning to each day,
There meditate my time away,
And angle on and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
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