How happy a state does the miller possess,
Who would be no greater nor fears to be less,
On his mill and himself he depends for support
Which is better than vilely cringing at court.

What tho' he all dusty and whiten'd doth go,
The more he's be powder'd, the more like a beau.
A clown in this dress may be honester far,
Than a Courtier who struts in a Garter and Star.

Tho' his hands are daub'd and not fit to be seen,
The hands of his betters are not very clean,
A palm more polite may as dirtily deal,
Gold in handling will stick to the fingers like meal.

What if when a pudding for dinner, he lacks,
He cribs without scruple from other men's sacks,
In this of right noble examples he brags,
Who borrow as freely from other men's bags.

Or should he endeavour to heap on estate,
In this too he mimics ye tools of the state,
Whose aim is alone for their coffers to fill,
For all his concern's to bring grist to the mill.

He eats when he's hungry he drinks when he's dry,
And down when he's weary contented does lie,
Then rises up cheerful to work and to sing,
If so happy a miller then who'd be a king?