The man of life vpright,
    Whose guiltlesse hart is free
From all dishonest deedes,
    Or thought of vanitie,

The man whose silent dayes,
    In harmeles ioys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
    Nor sorrow discontent ;

That man needs neither towers
    Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vautes to flie
    From thunders violence.

Hee onely can behold
    With vnafrighted eyes
The horrours of the deepe
    And terrours of the Skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares
    That fate, or fortune brings,
He makes the heau'n his booke,
    His wisedome heeu'nly things,

Good thoughts his onely friendes,
    His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober Inne
    And quiet Pilgrimage.