A sweet and pleasant Sonet, entituled: My minde
to me a kingdome is. To the tune of, In Creet, etc,
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M Y minde to me a Kingdome is,
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such perfect joyes therein I find,
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It farre exceeds all earthly blisse,
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that world affords, or growes by kind:
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Though much I want that most men have,
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Yet doth my mind forbid me crave
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Content I live, this is my stay,
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I seeke no more then may suffice,
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I presse to beare no haughty sway,
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looke what I lacke my minde supplies:
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Loe, thus I triumph like a King,
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Content with that my mind doth bring.
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I see how plenty surfets oft,
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and hasty climbers oft doe fall,
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I see how those that sit aloft,
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mishap doth threaten most of all,
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They get, they toyle, they spend with care,
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Such cares my mind could never beare.
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I laugh not at anothers losse,
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I grudge not at anothers gaine,
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No wordly wave my minde can tosse,
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I brooke that is anothers bane:
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I feare no foe, I scorne no friend,
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I dread no death, I feare no end.
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Some have too much, yet still they crave,
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I little have, yet seeke no more,
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They are but poore, though much they have,
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And I am rich with little store,
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They poore, I rich, they beg, I give,
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They lacke, I lend, they pine, I live.
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My wealth is health and perfect ease.
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my conscience cleare, my chiefe defence:
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I never seeke by bribes to please,
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nor by desert to give offence:
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Loe thus I live, thus will I die,
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Would all did so as well as I.
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No princely pompe, no wealthy store,
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no force to get the victory,
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No wily wit to salve a sore,
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no shape to win a Lovers eye,
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To none of these I yeeld as thrall,
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For why my mind despiseth all.
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I joy not at an earthly blisse,
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I weigh not Cresus wealth a straw,
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For Care, I care not what it is,
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I feare not Fortunes fatall law:
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My mind is such as may not move,
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For beauty bright or force of love:
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I wish not what I have at will,
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I wander not to seeke for more,
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I like the plaine, I clime no hill,
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in greatest storme I sit on shore,
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And laugh at those that toile in vaine,
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To get that must be lost againe.
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I kisse not were I wish to kill,
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I faine no love where most I hate,
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I breake no sleepe to winne my will,
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I waite not at the mighties gate,
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I scorne no poore, I feare no rich,
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I feele no want, nor have too much.
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The Court, ne Cart, I like, ne loath,
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extreames are counted worst of all,
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The golden meane betwixt them both,
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doth surest sit, and feares no fall:
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This is my choyce, for why I finde,
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No wealth is like a quiet minde.
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