I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;
I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again;
I sleep and yet do dream I am awake;
I hope for that I have; I have and want:
I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once.
  O, tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar
  Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war?

Risposta.
There is a jewel which no Indian mines
Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty;
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music’s strain:
  Seldom it come, to few from heaven sent,
  That much in little, all in nought, — Content.