Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death—
Not tied unto the world with care
Of prince's ear or vulgar breath;
Who hath his ear from rumors freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise,
Nor rules of state but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend—
This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And, having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir Henry Wotton.
THE GOOD GREAT MAN.
How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits
Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,
If any man obtain that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.
For shame, dear friend; renounce this canting strain.
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Place, titles, salary, a gilded chain—
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? three treasures—love and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night—
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.