The Character of a Happy Life

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;

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poem by Henry Wotton
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A Dialogue Betwixt God And The Soul

Soul.
Whilst my Souls eye beheld no light
But what stream'd from thy gracious sight
To me the worlds greatest King,
Seem'd but some little vulgar thing.

God.
Whilst thou prov'dst pure; and that in thee
I could glass all my Deity;
How glad did I from Heaven depart,
To find a lodging in thy heart!

S. Now Fame and Greatness bear the sway,
('Tis they that hold my prisons Key):
For whom my soul would die, might she
Leave them her Immortalitie.

G. I, and some few pure Souls conspire,
And burn both in a mutual fire,
For whom I'd die once more, ere they

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poem by Henry Wotton
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Elizabeth of Bohemia

YOU meaner beauties of the night,
   That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
   You common people of the skies;
   What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
   That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood
   By your weak accents; what 's your praise
   When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,
   By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,
   As if the spring were all your own;
   What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
   In form and beauty of her mind,

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poem by Henry Wotton
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Tears At The Grave Of Sir Albertus Morton (Who Was Buried At Southampton) Wept By Sir H. Wotton.

Silence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best,
For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;
Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest,
But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel.

O my unhappy lines! you that before
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries,
And now congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore
Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies.

This is the sable Stone, this is the Cave,
And womb of earth that doth his Corps embrace;
While others sing his praise, let me engrave
These bleeding Numbers to adorn the place.

Here will I paint the Characters of woe,
Here will I pay may tribute to the Dead,
And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow,
To humanize the Flints whereon I tread.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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This Hymn Was Made By Sir H. Wotton, When He Was An Ambassador At Venice, In The Time of A Great Sickness There

Eternal Mover, whose diffused Glory,
To shew our groveling Reason what thou art,
Unfolds it self in Clouds of Natures story,
Where Man, thy proudest Creature, acts his part:
Whom yet (alas) I know not why, we call
The Worlds contracted sum, the little all.

For, what are we but lumps of walking clay?
Why should we swel? whence should our spirits rise
Are not bruit Beasts as strong, and Birds as gay,
Trees longer liv'd, and creeping things as wise?
Only our souls was left an inward light,
To feel our weakness, and confess thy might.

Thou then, our strength, Father of life and death,
To whom our thanks, our vows, our selves we owe,
From me thy tenant of this fading breath,
Accept those lines which from thy goodness flow:
And thou that wert thy Regal Prophets Muse,
Do not thy Praise in weaker strains refuse.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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Doctor B. Of Tears

Who would have thought, there could have bin
Such joy in tears, wept for our sin?
Mine eyes have seen, my heart hath prov'd
The most and best of earthly joyes:
The sweets of love, and being lov'd,
Masks, Feasts, and Playes, and such like toyes.
Yet, this one tear, which now doth fall,
In true delight exceeds them all.

2. Indeed, mine eyes at first let in
Those guests that did these woes begin,
Therefore mine eyes in tears, and grief,
Are justly drown'd: but, that those tears
Should comfort bring, is past belief:
Oh God! in this thy grace appears,
Thou that mak'st light from darkness spring,
Mak'st joyes to weep, and sorrows sing.

3. Oh where am I? what may I think?
Help, help, alas my heart doth sink;

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poem by Henry Wotton
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In Praise of Angling

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldling's sports,
Where strained sardonic smiles are glossing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will,
Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be.

Fly from our country pastimes, fly,
Sad troops of human misery,
Come, serene looks,
Clear as the crystal brooks,
Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see
The rich attendance on our poverty;
Peace and a secure mind,
Which ail men seek, we only find.

Abused mortals! did you know
Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow?

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poem by Henry Wotton
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A Description Of The Countreys Recreations

Quivering fears, Heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, Untimely tears,
Fly, fly to Courts,
Fly to fond worldling's sports,
Where strained Sardonic smiles are glossing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will,
Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be.

Fly from our Countrey pastimes! fly,
Sad troops of humane misery;
Come serene looks,
Clear as the Crystal brooks,
Or the pure azur'd heaven, that smiles to see
The rich attendance on our poverty.
Peace and a secure mind,
(Which all men seek) we only find.

Abused Mortals! did you know
Where Joy, Hearts-ease, and comforts grow;

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poem by Henry Wotton
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