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In folly or in blindness; -
The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking kindness.



How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers


Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of

And having nothing, yet hath all.


WOULD Wisdom for herself be wooed, And wake the foolish from his dream,

She must be glad as well as good,

And must not only be, but seem: Beauty and joy are hers by right;

And knowing this, I wonder less That she's so scorned, when falsely dight

In misery and ugliness.

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Not great men, even when they're good:

The good man whom the Lord makes great,

By some disgrace of chance or blood He fails not to humiliate:

Not these: but souls, found here and there,

Oases in our waste of sin, Where every thing is well and fair, And God remits his discipline; Whose sweet subdual of the world The worldling scarce can recognize,

And ridicule against it hurled,

Drops with a broken sting, and dies;

Who nobly, if they cannot know Whether a 'scutcheon's dubious field

Carries a falcon or a crow,

Fancy a falcon on the shield; Yet ever careful not to hurt

God's honor, who creates success, Their praise of even the best desert Is but to have presumed no less; And should their own life plaudits bring,

They're simply vexed at heart that such

An easy, yea, delightful thing Should move the minds of men so much.

They live by law, not like the fool, But like the bard, who freely sings In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, And finds in them not bonds, but

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