BY JOHN BYROM
I am content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground, as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.
With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food, in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle humour’d hearts,
I choose to chat where’er I come,
Whate’er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the troth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.
For chance or change of peace or pain;
For fortune’s favour or her frown;
For lack of glut, for loss or gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or take about, with equal trim.
I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,
I make no bustling, but abide:
For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.
I love my neighbour as myself,
Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, pow’r, or pelf,
Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature doubtless has design’d
A man, the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it, and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for wordly stirs,
That man does right to mar his rest;
Let me be deft, and debonair,
I am content, I do not care.