a poem from my previous life that's been on my mind the last few days.

The Character of a Happy Life

HOW happy is he born or taught

That serveth not another's will,

Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his highest skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;

Whose soul is still prepared 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

I think of the last line of this poem daily.