Me it delights, in mellow Autumn tide,
To mark the pleasaunce that mine eye surrounds:
The forest-trees like coloured posies pied:
The upland's mealy grey, and russet grounds;
Seeking for joy, where joyaunce most abounds;
Not found, I ween, in courts and halls of pride,
Where folly feeds, or flattery's sighs and sounds,
And with sick heart, but seemeth to be merry:
True pleasaunce is with humble food supplied;
Like shepherd swain, who plucks the brambleberry.
With savoury appetite, from hedge-row briars,
Then drops content on molehills' sunny side;
Proving, thereby, low joys and small desires
Are easiest fed, and soonest satisfied.
_The Amulet._
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