Of The Birth And Bringing-Up Of Desire

"WHEN wert thou born, Desire?" In pomp and prime of May.

"By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot?" By good conceit, men say.

"Tell me, who was thy nurse?" Fresh youth in sug'red joy.

"What was thy meat and daily food?" Sore sighs with great annoy.

"What had you then to drink?" Unfeigned lovers' tears.

"What cradle were you rocked in?" In hope, devoid of fears.

"What brought you then asleep?" Sweet speech that liked men best.

"And where is now your dwelling-place?" In gentle hearts I rest.

"Doth company displease?" It doth in many one.

"Where would Desire then choose to be?" He likes to muse alone.

"What feedeth most your sight?" To gaze on favour still.

"Who find you most to be your foe?" Disdain of my good will.

"Will ever age or death bring you into decay?"

No, no, Desire both lives and dies ten thousand times a day.

Poem by Edward de Vere, 

Earl of Oxford

In Praise Of A Contented Mind

My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find
That it excels all other bliss
That world affords or grows by kind.
Though much I want which most men have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
No princely pomp, no wealthy store,
No force to win the victory,
No wily wit to salve a sore,
No shape to feed each gazing eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall.
For why my mind doth serve for all.

I see how plenty suffers oft,
How hasty climbers soon do fall;
I see that those that are aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
They get with toil, they keep with fear.
Such cares my mind could never bear.

Content I live, this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice;
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look what I lack my mind supplies;
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

Some have too much, yet still do crave;
I little have, and seek no more.
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another’s loss;
I grudge not at another’s gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
My state at one doth still remain.
I fear no foe, nor fawning friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread my end.

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust,
Their wisdom by their rage of will,
Their treasure is their only trust;
And cloaked craft their store of skill.
But all the pleasure that I find
Is to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clear my chief defense;
I neither seek by bribes to please,
Nor by deceit to breed offense.
Thus do I live, thus will I die.
Would all did so as well as I!

Poem by: Edward de Vere
17th Earl of Oxford

Art: A Contented Mind’s A Continual Feast
By Erskine Nicol
Via: Art Finder