I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff

You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light; You common people of the skies, What are you when the sun shall rise?

Love lodged in a woman's breast Is but a guest.

Who God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than gifts to send, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend.

Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

He first deceased; she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died.