To whose high nature pomp hath ever been
But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm,
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me,
Thou knowst not how serenely I could take
The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart,
Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d,
May dwell in silence.
Xim. Father! doubt thou not
But we will bind ourselves to poverty,
With glad devotedness, if this, but this,