Content
Peace muttering thoughts, and do not grudge to keep
Within the walls of your own breast:
Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep,
Can on another's hardly rest.
Gad not abroad at ev'ry quest and call
Of an untrainéd hope or passion.
To court each place or fortune that does fall,
Is wantonness in contemplation.
Mark how the fire in flints does quiet lie,
Content and warm t' it self alone:
But when it would appear to other's eye,
Without a knock it never shone.
Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure
Complies and suits with all estates;
Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure
Take up within a cloister's gates.
This soul does span the world, and hang content
From either pole unto the center:
Wherein each room of the well-furnished tent
He lies warm, and without adventure.
The brags of life are but a nine days wonder;
And after death the fumes that spring
From private bodies make as big a thunder,
As those which rise for a huge King.
Only your Chronicle is lost; and yet
Better by worms be all once spent,
Than to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret
Your name in books, which may not rent:
When all your deeds, whose brunt you feel alone,
Are chewed by others pens and tongue;
And as their wit is, their digestion,
Your nourished fame is weak or strong.
Then cease discoursing soul, till your own ground,
Do not your self or friends importune.
He that by seeking has himself once found,
Has ever found a happy fortune.
Peace muttering thoughts, and do not grudge to keep
Within the walls of your own breast:
Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep,
Can on another's hardly rest.
Gad not abroad at ev'ry quest and call
Of an untrainéd hope or passion.
To court each place or fortune that does fall,
Is wantonness in contemplation.
Mark how the fire in flints does quiet lie,
Content and warm t' it self alone:
But when it would appear to other's eye,
Without a knock it never shone.
Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure
Complies and suits with all estates;
Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure
Take up within a cloister's gates.
This soul does span the world, and hang content
From either pole unto the center:
Wherein each room of the well-furnished tent
He lies warm, and without adventure.
The brags of life are but a nine days wonder;
And after death the fumes that spring
From private bodies make as big a thunder,
As those which rise for a huge King.
Only your Chronicle is lost; and yet
Better by worms be all once spent,
Than to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret
Your name in books, which may not rent:
When all your deeds, whose brunt you feel alone,
Are chewed by others pens and tongue;
And as their wit is, their digestion,
Your nourished fame is weak or strong.
Then cease discoursing soul, till your own ground,
Do not your self or friends importune.
He that by seeking has himself once found,
Has ever found a happy fortune.
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