Classic Poem

O you that bathe in courtly blysse
Or toyle in fortune's giddy spheare;
Do not too rashly deem amysse
Of him that bydes contented here.

Nor yet disdeigne the russet stoale,
Which o'er each carelesse lymb he flyngs:
Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle,
In whyche he quaffs the lympid springs.

Forgive him, if at eve or dawne,
Devoide of worldlye cark he stray:
Or all beside some flowery lawne,
He waste his inoffensive daye.

So may he pardonne fraud and strife,
If such in courtlye haunt he see:
For faults there beene in busye life,
From whyche these peaceful glens are free.