Bosworth-field With a Taste of the Variety of Other Poems, Left by Sir John Beaumont ... Set Forth by his Sonne, Sir Iohn Beaumont |
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Of true Liberty.
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Of true Liberty.
He that from dust of worldly tumults flies,May boldly open his vndazled eyes,
To reade wise Natures booke, and with delight
Surueyes the Plants by day, and starres by night.
We need not trauaile, seeking wayes to blisse:
He that desires contentment, cannot misse:
No garden walles this precious flowre imbrace:
It common growes in eu'ry desart place.
Large scope of pleasure drownes vs like a flood,
To rest in little, is our greatest good.
Learne ye that clime the top of Fortunes wheele,
That dang'rous state which ye disdaine to feele:
Your highnesse puts your happinesse to flight,
Your inward comforts fade with outward light,
Vnlesse it be a blessing not to know
This certaine truth, lest ye should pine for woe,
To see inferiours so diuinely blest
With freedome, and your selues with fetters prest,
Ye sit like pris'ners barr'd with doores and chaines,
And yet no care perpetuall care restraines.
Ye striue to mixe your sad conceits with ioyes,
By curious pictures, and by glitt'ring toyes,
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Delighting to conuerse with bookes or friends,
And liuing thus retir'd, obtaine the pow'r
To reigne as Kings, of euery sliding houre:
They walke by Cynthiaes light, and lift their eyes
To view the ord'red armies in the skies.
The heau'ns they measure with imagin'd lines,
And when the Northerne Hemisphere declines,
New constellations in the South they find,
Whose rising may refresh the studious mind.
In these delights, though freedome shew more high:
Few can to things aboue their thoughts apply.
But who is he that cannot cast his looke
On earth, and reade the beauty of that booke?
A bed of smiling flow'rs, a trickling Spring,
A swelling Riuer, more contentment bring,
Then can be shadow'd by the best of Art:
Thus still the poore man hath the better part.
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