No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:
His lambs’ warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite:
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.
Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my Lord’s uprise;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,