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How happy is he born or taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill;
Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepar'd for death Untied unto the world with care Of princes' grace or vulgar breath;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood The deepest wounds are given by praise, By rule of state, but not of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruins make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than goods to send, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend.
This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir Henry Wotton
Read poems about / on: happy, truth, friend, fear, hope, death, god, world, life, passion, rose
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