These, thy flocks do clothing bring thee!
And thy food, out of the fields:
Pretty songs, the birds do sing thee!
Sweet perfumes the meadow yields:
And what more is worth the seeing?
Heaven and Earth, thy prospect being!
None comes hither, who denies thee
Thy contentments, for despite;
Neither any that envies thee,
That wherein thou dost delight.
But all happy things are meant thee!
And whatever may content thee!
Thy Affection, Reason measures,
And distempers none it feeds:
Still so harmless are thy pleasures,
That no other's grief it breeds.
And if night beget thee sorrow;
Seldom stays it till the morrow.
Why do foolish men so vainly
Seek contentment in their store?
Since they may perceive so plainly
Thou art rich, in being poor!
And that they are vexed about it;
Whilst thou merry are without it!
Why are idle brains devising
How high titles may be gained!
Since, by those poor toys despising,
Thou hast higher things obtained!
For the man who scorns to crave them,
Greater is than they that have them.
If all men could taste that sweetness
Thou dost, in thy meanness, know!
Kings would be to seek, where greatness
And their honours to bestow.
For it such content would breed them,
As they would not think they need them.
And if those, who so aspiring
To the Court preferments be,
Knew how worthy the desiring
Those things are, enjoyed by thee!
Wealth and titles would, hereafter,
Subjects be for scorn and laughter.
He that Courtly styles affected,
Should a May-Lord's honour have;
He that heaps of Wealth collected,
Should be counted as a slave:
And the man, with few'st things cumbered,
With the noblest should be numbered.
Thou, their folly hast discerned;
That neglect thy mind and thee!
And to slight them, thou hast learned,
Of what title e'er they be!
That, no more with thee obtaineth;
Than with them, thy meanness gaineth.
All their riches, honours, pleasures,
Poor unworthy trifles seem;
If comparèd with thy treasures!
And do merit no esteem:
For they, true contents provide thee,
And from them, can none divide thee.