Sir Henry Wotton
¶[1568-1639]
Elizabeth of Bohemia
¶You meaner beauties of the night,That poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You common people of the skies,What are you, when the Moon shall rise?[288]Ye violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles knownLike the proud virgins of the year,As if the spring were all your own,—What are you, when the Rose is blown?
¶Ye curious chanters of the woodThat warble forth dame Nature's lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what's your praiseWhen Philomel her voice doth raise?
¶So when my Mistress shall be seenIn sweetness of her looks and mind,By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,Tell me, if she were not design'dTh' eclipse and glory of her kind?
Character of a Happy Life
¶How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thoughtAnd simple truth his utmost skill!
¶Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame, or private breath;
¶Who envies none that chance doth raiseOr vice; Who never understoodHow 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 feedNor ruin make oppressors great;[289]Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend:
¶—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.