I live, and yet methinks

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.