Complete Poems

Leisure, not sloth.

This tranquil manner of life, imitable by few,
I either desire, or at least pursue, secluded from sharp
Ambition, save for this: the ambition of being without ambition.
For we enjoy a vice akin to the love of virtue.
Yet, unlike sloth which commends itself and gazes
Only upon itself—belching only for its own sated breast—
Or, entangled in the biting daring of some grave disease,
Proclaims its own comforts of living, betrayed by me:
I am not wanting to others, so that I might be wretched for myself. But neither do I
Grow cold, so that I might cherish those things which the foolish mob has
Consecrated to itself. Therefore, the green shadows of the pleasant
Countryside entice me. No messenger here beats upon my ears,
Painting falsehoods with doubtful words:
What the Sultan does, what the King, what Caesar, and he to whom
Foolish fortune has granted three crowns of the pirate.
What have I to do with the foolish English, who have fastened new
Yokes of kingdom onto their old ones, and have prepared foreign
Laws of servitude for themselves, so that their own might not suffer those as just?
Therefore, within myself, I arrange snares for varied grief:
And in the bosom of nourishing pleasure, I become a God.
Golden pleasure, queen of noble things,
He who scorns you is utterly devoid of reason, and
He who places it in base things. You grant the enjoyment of those things,
Eternal Creator, which You reserve for Yourself in moments.
Here I direct the force and keenness of my quiet, Brassacus,
To be called happy by no other right.
Neither does any foul freckle burn such a beautiful face
With a dark blight; but I steer myself in solid peace:
I am my own author, my own people, my own client, and my own faithful patron—
Unless I wait to hear what the fickle Court might bellow concerning me.
This one thing alone could disturb a true triumph.