The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity,
The man whose silent days,
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaunts to fly
From thunder's violence.
He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the Skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate, or fortune brings,
He makes the heav'n his booke,
His wisedom heav'nly things,
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inn
And quiet Pilgrimage.