How blest is he, though ever crossed,
That can all crosses blessings make;
That finds himself ere he be lost,
And lose that found for virtue's sake.
Yea, blest is he, in life and death,
That fears not death nor loves this life;
That sets his will his wit beneath;
And hath continual peace in strife.
That naught observes but what preserves
His mind and body from offense;
That neither courts nor seasons serves,
And learns without experience.
That loves his body for his soul,
Soul for his mind, his mind for God,
God for himself, and doth control
Content, if it with him be odd.
That rests in action, acting naught
But what is good in deed and show;
That seeks but God within his thought,
And thinks but God to love and know.
That lives too low for envy's looks,
And yet too high for loathed contempt;
That makes his friends good men and books
And naught without them doth attempt.
That ever lives a light to all,
Though oft obscured like the sun;
And, though his fortunes be but small,
Yet Fortune doth not seek nor shun.
That never looks but grace to find,
Nor seeks for knowledge to be known;
That makes a kingdom of his mind,
Wherein, with God, he reigns alone.
This man is great with little state,
Lord of the world epitomized,
Who with staid front outfaceth Fate
And, being empty, is sufficed--
Or is sufficed with little, since (at least)
He makes his conscience a continual feast.
--John Davies, of Hereford.