Classic Poem

1

How happy a man is he,
Whose soul is quiet and free,
And liveth content with his own!
That does not desire
To swell nor aspire,
To the coronet nor to the crown
He doth sit and despise
Those Mushromes that rise,
But disturbs not his sleep,
At the quoil that they keep,
Both in Country and Town,
In the plain he sits safe,
And doth privately laugh,
At high thoughts that are tumbling down.

2

His heart and his head are at rest,
And he sleeps with a sorrowlesse brest,
That aspires not to sit at the helme,
The desires of his mind,
To's estate are confin'd,
And he lets not his brains to o'rewhelme.
He's for innocent sport,
And keeps off from the court,
And if sad thoughts arise,
He does only devise
With sack to repel 'um
Though the times do turn round,
He doth stil keep his ground,
Both in a Republique and Realme.

3

He wears his own head and ears,
And he tipples in safety with's peers,
And harmelesly passeth his time,
If he meet with a crosse,
A full bowle he doth toss,
Nor his wealth, nor his wit are his crime.
He doth privately sit
With his friend clubbing wit,
And disburdning their breasts
Of some innocent jests
And no higher doth clime
He smiles at the fate
Of those Courtiers of state,
That fall down 'cause their thoughts are sublime.

4

But Princes and Nobles are still,
Not tenants for life, but at will,
And the giddy-brain'd rout is their Lord,
He that's crowned to day,
A scepter to sway,
And by all is obey'd and ador'd,
Both he and his crown
In a trice are thrown down,
For an Act just and good,
If mis-understood
Or an ill-relish'd word,
While he that scorns pelf,
And enjoyes his own self,
Is secure from the Vote or the Sword.