John Byrom (1692–1763)

I AM content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me;

When fuss and fret was all my fare,

It got no ground, as I could see:

So when away my caring went,

I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,

I strive to make my matters meet;

To seek what ancient sages sought,

Physic and food, in sour and sweet:

To take what passes in good part,

And keep the hiccups from the heart.

With good and gentle humour’d hearts,

I choose to chat where’er I come,

Whate’er the subject be that starts;

But if I get among the glum,

I hold my tongue to tell the troth,

And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain;

For fortune’s favour or her frown;

For lack of glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge, nor up nor down:

But swing what way the ship shall swim,

Or take about, with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,

Nor trace the turn of every tide;

If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide:

For shining wealth, or scaring woe,

I force no friend, I fear no foe.

I love my neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave;

Nor to his pleasure, pow’r, or pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive:

Dame Nature doubtless has design’d

A man, the monarch of his mind.

Now taste and try this temper, sirs,

Mood it, and brood it in your breast;

Or if ye ween, for wordly stirs,

That man does right to mar his rest;

Let me be deft, and debonair,

I am content, I do not care.