Happiness

How happy is he born or taught,

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 prepar'd for death

Untied unto the world with care

Of princes' grace or vulgar breath;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood

The deepest wounds are given by praise,

By rule of state, but not of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruins make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray,

More of his grace than goods to send,

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.