My friend, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find:
The riches left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground; the quiet mind;
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthy life;
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no dainty fare;
Wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night dischargéd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress;
The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night;
Is Content thyself with thine estate,
Neither wish death, nor fear his might.
The Soote Season
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale;
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
5Summer is come, for every spray now springs;
The hart bath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,
The fishes float with new repairéd scale;
I am not now in France, to judge the wine,
With sav’ry sauce those delicates to feel;
Nor yet in Spain, where one must him incline,
Rather than to be, outwardly to seem.
I meddle not with wits that be so fine;
Nor Flanders’ cheer letteth not my sight to deem
Of black and white, nor taketh my wit away
With beastliness, they beasts do so esteem.
Nor am I not where Christ is given in prey
For money, poison, and treason—at Rome
A common practice, used night and day.
But here I am in Kent and Christendom,
Among the Muses, where I read and rhyme;
Where, if thou list, my Poins, for to come,
Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my time.
The adder all her slough away she slings,
The swift swallow pursueth the flies small;
The busy bee her honey now she mings.
Winter is worn, that was the flowers’ bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things,
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
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My Friend, the Things That Do Attain
