"Content to live, this is my staye,
I seeke no more than maye suffyse,
I presse to beare no haughty swaye;
Look what I lack, my mynde supplies;
Lo, thus I triumph like a kynge,
Content with that my mynde doth bringe.

"Some have too muche, yet still do crave,
I little have and seek no more,
They are but poore, though muche they have,
And I am ryche with lyttle store;
They poore, I ryche, they begge, I gyve,
They lacke, I leave, they pyne, I lyve.

"I laughe not at another's losse,
I grudge not at another's payne;
No worldly wants my mynde can toss,
My state at one dothe still remayne:
I feare no foe, I fawn no friende,
I lothe not lyfe nor dreade my ende.

"Some weighe their pleasure by theyre luste,
Theyre wisdom by theyre rage of wyll,
Theyre treasure is theyre onlye truste,
A cloked crafte theyre store of skylle:
But all the pleasure that I fynde
Is to mayntayne a quiet mynde.

"My wealthe is healthe and perfect ease,