పుట:NavarasaTarangini.djvu/160

 
So minutes, 'hours, days, months, and years,
Passed ever to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave,
Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely !
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep.,
Than doth a rich- embroidered canopy
To kings that feay their subjects' treachery ?
O, yes, it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.