A sweet and pleasant Sonet, entituled: My minde to me a kingdome is.
To the tune of,
In Creet, &c,
My minde to me a Kingdome is,
such perfect ioyes therein I find,
It farre excéeds all earthly blisse,
that world affords, or growes by kind:
Though much I want that most men haue,
Yet doth my mind forbid me craue.
Content I liue, this is my stay,
I séeke no more then may suffice,
I presse to beare no haughty sway,
looke what I lacke my minde supplies:
Loe, thus I triumph like a King.
Content with that my mind doth bring.
I sée how plenty surfets oft,
and hasty climbers oft doe fall,
I sée how those that sit aloft,
mishap doth threaten most of all,
They get, they toyle, they spend with care,
Such care my mind could neuer beare.
I laugh not at anothers losse,
I grudge not at anothers gaine,
No wordly waue my minde can tosse,
I brooke that is anothers bane:
I feare no foe, I scorne no friend,
I dread no death, I feare no end.
Some haue too much, yet still they craue,
I little haue, yet séeke no more,
They are but poore, though much they haue,
And I am rich with little store,
They poore, I rich, they beg, I giue,
They lacke, I lend, they pine, I liue.
My wealth is health and perfect ease,
my conscience cleare, my chiefe defence▪
I neuer seeke by bribes to please,
nor by desert to giue offence:
Loe thus I liue, thus will I die,
Would all did so as well as I.
No princely pompe, no wealthy store,
no force to get the victory,
No wily wit to salue a sore,
no shape to win a Louers eye,
To none of these I yéeld as thrall,
For why my mind despiseth all.
I ioy not at an earthly blisse,
I weigh not
Cresus wealth a straw,
For Care, I care not what it is,
I feare not Fortunes fatall law:
My mind is such as may not moue,
For beauty bright or force of loue:
I wish not what I haue at will,
I wander not to séeke for more,
I like the plaine, I clime no hill,
in greatest storme I sit on shore,
And laugh at those that toile in vaine,
To get that must be lost againe.
I kisse not were I wish to kill,
I faine no loue where most I hate,
I breake no sléepe to winne my will,
I waite not at the mighties gate,
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich,
I féele no want, nor haue too much.
The Court, ne Cart, I like, ne loath,
extreames are counted worst of all,
The golden meane betwixt them both,
both farest sit, and feares no fall:
This is my choyce, for why I finde,
No wealth is like a quiet minde.
FINIS.
Printed at London for H.G.