My minde to me a kingdome is, such perfect joy therin I find, That it excells all other blisse, which God or Nature hath assign'd. Though much I want, that most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely port nor welthie store, no force to winne a victorie, no wyly wit to salve a sore, no shape to winne a loving eye: to none of these I yeld as thrall, for why my minde despise them all. I see that plentie surfeits oft, and hastie clymbers soonest fall: I see that such as are a loft, mishap doth threaten most of all: these get with toyle and keepe with feare, such cares my minde can never beare. I presse to beare no haughtie sway, I wish no more then may suffice: I doe no more than well I may, look what I want my minde supplies, loe thus I triumph like a King, my minde content with any thing. I laugh not at anothers losse, nor grudge not at anothers gaine: no worldly waves my minde can tosse, I brooke that is anothers bane: I feare no foe nor fawne on friend, I loth not lyfe nor dread mine end. My wealth is health and perfect ease, and conscience cleere my chiefe defence, I never seeke by brybes to please, nor by desert to give offence: thus doe I live, thus will I dye, would all did so as well as I. Sir Edward Dyer (1543-1607)
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