Sir Henry Wotton

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;
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You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
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OH thou great Power, in whom I move,
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
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Soul.
Whilst my Souls eye beheld no light
But what stream'd from thy gracious sight
To me the worlds greatest King,
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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
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And now all Nature seem'd in love,
The lusty sap began to move;
New juice did stir th'embracing Vines,
And Birds had drawn their Valentines:
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Silence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best,
For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;
Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest,
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Eternal Mover, whose diffused Glory,
To shew our groveling Reason what thou art,
Unfolds it self in Clouds of Natures story,
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Dazled thus with height of place,
Whilst our Hopes our wits Beguile,
No man marks the narrow space
'Twixt a Prison and a Smile.
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My soul exalt the Lord with Hymns of praise:
O Lord my God, how boundless is thy might?
Whose Throne of State is cloath'd with glorious rays,
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Ho. Noble, lovely, vertuous Creature,
Purposely so fram'd by Nature
To enthral your servants wits.
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Quivering fears, Heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, Untimely tears,
Fly, fly to Courts,
Fly to fond worldling's sports,
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Rouse up thy self, my gentle Muse,
Though now our green conceits be gray,
And yet once more do not refuse
To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play
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Untimely Feaver, rude insulting guest,
How didst thou with such unharmonious heat
Dare to distune his well-composed rest;
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You that on Stars do look,
Arrest not there your sight,
Though Natures fairest Book,
And signed with propitious light;
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YOU meaner beauties of the night,
   That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
   You common people of the skies;
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Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,
Fly, fly to courts,
Fly to fond worldling's sports,
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O Faithless World, & thy more faithless part, a Woman's heart!
The true Shop of variety, where sits nothing but fits
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Oh, thou great Power ! in whom I move,
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie
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