Nor have I ever said I loved, yet,
Where I expected more than love for it.
And let me fail of that where most I lov'd,
If that with greater joy I be not mov'd,
By twenty-fold, when I may kindness shew,
Than when their favours they on me bestow.
I have not that vile mind, nor shall
For ever with such baseness be possest,
As in my anger, be it ne'er so just,
To utter ought committed to my trust
In time of friendship, though constrained so,
That want of telling it should me undo;
For whosoe'er hath trust repos'd in me,
Shall ever find me true, though false he be.
I have no love to country, Prince, or friend,
That can be more, or less, or have an end.
For whatsoever state they rais'd me to,
I would not love them better than I do;
Nor can I hate them, though on me they should
Heap all the scorn and injury they could.
I have no doting humour, to affect
Where love I find rewarded with neglect.
I never was with melancholy fit
Oppressed, in such stupid manner, yet,
As that ungently to my friends I spake,
Or heed to their contentment did not take;
Nor have I felt my anger so inflam'd
But that with gentle speech it might be tam'd.
I have no private cause of discontent,
Nor grudge against the public government.
I have no spite or envy in my breast,
Nor doth another's peace disturb my rest.
I have not, yet, that dunghill-humour which
Some great men have, who, so they may be rich,
Think all gain sweet, and nought ashamed are
In vile and rascal suits to have a share;
For I their baseness scorn, and ever loath'd,
By wronging others to be fed or cloath'd,
Much more to have my pride or lust maintain'd
With what by foul oppression hath been gain'd.
I have not been enamour'd of the fate
Of men to great advancements fortunate.
I never yet a favourite did see
So happy, that I wished to be he;
Nor would I, whatsoe'er of me became,
Be
any other man but who I am. For though I am assur'd the destiny Of millions tendeth to felicity,
Yet those dear secret comforts which I find,
Unseen, within the closet of my mind,
Give more assurance of true happiness,
Than any outward glories can express;
And 'tis so hard, what shows soe'er there be,
The inward plight of other men to see,
That my estate with none exchange I dare,
Although my fortunes more despised were.
I have not hitherto divulged ought
Wherein my words dissented from my thought;
Nor would I fail, if I might able be,
To make my manners and my words agree.
I have not been ashamed to confess
My lowest fortunes or the kindnesses
Of poorest men; nor have I proud been made
By any favour from a great man had.
I have not plac'd so much of my content
Upon the goods of Fortune, to lament
The loss of them more than may seemly be,
To grieve for things which are no part of me;
For, I have known the worst of being poor,
Yea, lost when I to lose have had no more.
And though the coward-world more quakes for fear
Of poverty than any plagues that are,
Yet he that minds his end, observes his ward,
The means pursues, and keeps a heart prepar'd,
Dares scorn and poverty as boldly meet,
As others gladly fame and riches greet.
For those who on the stage of this proud world
Into the paws of want and scorn are hurl'd,
Are in the master-prize that trieth men,
And Virtue fighteth her brav'st combat then.
I no antipathy, as yet, have had,
"Twixt me and any creature God hath made;
For if they do not scratch, nor bite, nor sting,
Snakes, serpents, toads, or cats, or any thing
I can endure to touch or look upon;
So cannot ev'ry one whom I have known.
I have no nation on the earth abhorr'd,
But with a Jew or Spaniard can accord
As well as with my brother, if I find
He bear a virtuous and heroic mind.
Yet, I confess, of all men, I most hate
Such as their manners do adulterate,
Those linsey-woolsey people, who are neither
French, English,Scotch, nor Dutch, but all together:
Those I affect not; rather wish I could,
That they were fish, or flesh, or hot, or cold;
But none among all them worse brook I than
Our mere Hispaniolis'd Englishmen ;
And if we 'scape their treacheries at home,
I'll fear no mischiefs wheresoe'er I come:
I have not fear'd who my religion knows;
Nor ever, for preferment, made I shows
Of what I was not. For although I may,
Through want, be forc'd to put on worse array
Upon my body, I will ever find
Means to maintain a habit for my mind,
Of truth in grain, and wear it in the sight
Of all the world, in all the world's despite.
I their presumption have not, who dare blame
A fault in others, and correct the same
With grievous punishments, yet guilty be
Of those offences in more high degree.
For oh! how bold and impudent a face,
And what unmoved hearts of flint and brass
Have those corrupted magistrates, who dare
Upon the seat of judgment sit, and there
Without an inward horror preach abroad
The guilt of sin and heavy wrath of God,
Against offenders pleading at their bar,
Yet know what plots within their bosoms are.
Who, when enthron'd for justice they behold
A reverend magistrate, both grave and old,
And hear how sternly he doth aggravate
Each little crime offenders perpetrate,
How much the fact he seemeth to abhor,
How he a just correction labours for,
How he admires and wonders that among
A people where the faith hath flourish'd long,
Such wickedness should reign which, he hath heard,
The heathen to commit have been afeard;
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