« VorigeDoorgaan »
“Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen
The king?” The cry ran to and fro;
The laugh that free men know.
The king came not. They called him dead;
Helen Hunt Jackson (1831-1885]
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE
That serveth not another's will;
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Of public fame or private breath;
Nor vice; who never understood
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great; 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 freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.
Henry Wotton (1568–1639)
“MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS”
My mind to me a kingdom is,
Such present joys therein I find, That it excels all other bliss
That earth affords or grows by kind: Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No shape to feed a loving eye;
I see how plenty (surfeits] oft,
And hasty climbers soon do fall; I see that those which are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all; They get with toil, they keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear.
Content to live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
to bear no haughty sway;
Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
And I am rich with little store:
I laugh not at another's loss;
I grudge not at another's gain;
My state at one doth still remain:
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend;
Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will;
A cloaked craft their store of skill:
My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clear my chief defense; I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offense: Thus do I live; thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I!
Edward Dyer (15507-1607]
WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY
To thee, fair freedom! I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot, or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign;
And every health which I begin, Converts dull port to bright champagne;
Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!
I fly from falsehood's specious grin! Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win; It buys, what courts have not in store;
It buys me freedom at an inn.
Whoe er has traveled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome, at an inn.
William Shenstone (1714-1763]
I Am content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the world for me!
It got no ground that I could see;
With more of thanks and less of thought
I strive to make my matters meet; To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet; To take what passes in good part And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gently-humored hearts
I choose to chat where'er I come,
But if I get among the glum
For chance or change of peace or pain,
For Fortune's favor or her frown,
I never dodge nor up nor down,
I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide. If simple sense will not succeed
I made no bustling, but abide.
For shining wealth or scaring woe
Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they're-i'-th'-wrong and we're-i'-th'-right, I shun the rancors and the routs;
And, wishing well to every wight,
With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint.
I cook no kind of a complaint.
Not that I rate myself the rule
How all my betters should behave;
Nor to a set of men a slave;
Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where'er I link,
I talk thereon just as I think;
If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath
And read and write, but without wrath;
Myself like him too, by his leave!
Came I to crouch, as I conceive!