The Miller

How happy a state does the miller possess, Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less? On his mill and himself he depends for support, Which is better than servilely cringing at court. What though he all dusty and whit'n'd does go, The more he's be powder'd, the more like a beau: A clown in his dress may be honester far, Than a courtier who struts in his garter and star. Than a courtier, &c.

Tho' his hands are so daub'd, they're not fit to be seen, The hands of his betters are not very clean; A palm more polite may as dirtily deal; Gold in handling will stick to the fingers like meal. What if then a pudding for dinner he lacks, He cribs, without scruple, from other mens sack: In this of right noble examples he brags, Who borrow as freely from other mens bags.

Or should he endeavour to heap an estate; In this too he mimicks the tools of the state, Whose aim is alone their coffers to fill, As all his concern's to bring grist to his mill. He eats when he's hungry, and drinks when he's dry, And down when he's weary, contented does lie, Then rises up chearful to work and to sing. If so happy a miller, who would be a king?