296
Tixall Poetry.
Of what they hate, a rich unhappy tye,
Obscure within, whilst gloryous to the eye.
Whilst I, unenvied, far more happy prove
Tether'd with love, and tyed to what I love.
But this no lustre casts, makes no vayne show,
All in itselfe concentred; here I'le choose
My owne opinion, though I others loose.
The world's false riches, and the plentyest store,
Breed but in man the coveting of more,
Not satisfie; true riches is content;
But false they are when with them we lament;
Which many doe, who chuse this seeming blis,
And find a griefe which their destruction is.
The brightest luster ever misery
Was cloathed in, ne'er did so dazle me,
But that through it I could discerne far lesse
Of joyes, than in the meane clad happines.
Obscure within, whilst gloryous to the eye.
Whilst I, unenvied, far more happy prove
Tether'd with love, and tyed to what I love.
But this no lustre casts, makes no vayne show,
All in itselfe concentred; here I'le choose
My owne opinion, though I others loose.
The world's false riches, and the plentyest store,
Breed but in man the coveting of more,
Not satisfie; true riches is content;
But false they are when with them we lament;
Which many doe, who chuse this seeming blis,
And find a griefe which their destruction is.
The brightest luster ever misery
Was cloathed in, ne'er did so dazle me,
But that through it I could discerne far lesse
Of joyes, than in the meane clad happines.
