Content
Peace,
mutt'ring
thoughts,
and
do
not
grudge
to
keep
Within
the
walls
of
your
own
breast.
Who
cannot
on
his
own
bed
sweetly
sleep,
Can
on
another's
hardly
rest.
Gad
not
abroad
at
ev'ry
quest
and
call
Of
an
untrained
hope
or
passion.
To
court
each
place
or
fortune
that
doth
fall,
Is
wantonnesse
in
contemplation.
Mark
how
the
fire
in
flints
doth
quiet
lie,
Content
and
warm
t'
it
self
alone:
But
when
it
would
appeare
to
other's
eye,
Without
a
knock
it
never
shone.
Give
me
the
pliant
mind,
whose
gentle
measure
Complies
and
suits
with
all
estates;
Which
can
let
loose
to
a
crown,
and
yet
with
pleasure
Take
up
within
a
cloister's
gates.
This
soul
doth
span
the
world,
and
hang
content
From
either
pole
unto
the
centre:
Where
in
each
room
of
the
well-furnisht
tent
He
lies
warm,
and
without
adventure.
The
brags
of
life
are
but
a
nine
days'
wonder:
And
after
death
the
fumes
that
spring
From
private
bodies,
make
as
big
a
thunder
As
those
which
rise
from
a
huge
king.
Onely
thy
chronicle
is
lost:
and
yet
Better
by
worms
be
all
once
spent,
Than
to
have
hellish
moths
still
gnaw
and
fret
Thy
name
in
books,
which
may
not
rent.
When
all
thy
deeds,
whose
brunt
thou
feel'st
alone,
Are
chaw'd
by
others'
pens
and
tongue,
And
as
their
wit
is,
their
digestion,
Thy
nourisht
fame
is
weak
or
strong.
Then
cease
discoursing
soul,
till
thine
own
ground;
Do
not
thyself
or
friends
importune.
He
that
by
seeking
hath
himself
once
found,
Hath
ever
found
a
happie
fortune.
