Classic Poem

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 wantonness in contemplation.

Mark how the fire in flints doth quiet lie,
Content and warm t' itself alone:
But when it would appear 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-furnished 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.

Only 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 chawed by others' pens and tongue;
And as their wit is, their digestion,
Thy nourished 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 happy fortune.