I NEver loved ambitiously to climb,
Or thrust my hand too far into the fire.
To be in heaven sure is a blessed thing,
But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one's
Cannot but be more labor than delight.
Such is the state of men in honor placed :
They are gold vessels made for servile
High trees that keep the weather from
But cannot shield the tempest from them-
I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales,
Neither to be so great as to be envied,
Nor yet so poor the world should pity me.