,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill.

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 life from rumours 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 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.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

[Notes: _Sir Henry Wotton_ (1568-1639). A poet, ambassador, and
miscellaneous writer, in the reign of James I.

_Born or taught_ = whether from natural character or by training.

_Nor ruin make oppressors great_ = nor _his_ ruin, &c.

_How deepest wounds are given with praise_. How praise may only cover
some concealed injury.]

* * * * *

MAN'S SERVANTS.

For us the winds do blow;
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see but means our good,
As our delight, or as our treasure:
The whole is either cupboard of our food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our head;
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.

More servants wait on Man
Than he'll take notice of. In every path
He treads down that which doth befriend him,
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
O mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.

Since, then, My God, Thou hast
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it,
That it may dwel