This Sir Henry Wotton Poem, is one of the few school days' poems that I still remember. Happened to read it today, and once more. We'd by-hearted this poem in 3 classes, but I've only till date, been to remember the first Stanza...
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 bonds
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
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