Sir Henry Wotton

A Woman's

Heart

O faithless world, and thy most faithless

part,

A woman's heart!

The true shop of variety, where sits
Nothing but fits

And fevers of desire, and pangs of love,
Which toys remove.

Why was she born to please? or I to trust Words writ in dust,

Suffering her eyes to govern my despair, My pain for air;

And fruit of time rewarded with untruth, The food of youth?

Untrue she was; yet I believed her eyes, Instructed spies,

Till I was taught that love was but a

school

To breed a fool.

Or sought she more, by triumphs of denial, To make a trial

How far her smiles commanded my weakness?

Yield and confess!

Excuse no more thy folly; but, for cure, Blush and endure

As well thy shame as passions that were vain;

And think, 'tis gain,

To know that love lodged in a woman's

breast

Is but a guest.

The Happy Life

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise or fear to fall:

Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all.