For thee alone I brave the boundless deep,
Those eyes my light through every distant sea;
My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep,
The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee,
To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye
Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air,
When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly,
The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there,
Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore,
While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast,
Still whispering on that when some years are o'er,
One bright reward shall crown my toil at last,
Thy smile alone, thy smile alone.

Oh place beside the transport of that hour
All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright,
Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,—
Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light?
On thee alone, on thee alone.

If well thou view'st us with no squinted eye,
No partiall judgement, thou wilt quickly rate
Thy wealth no richer then my povertie;
My want no poorer then thy rich estate:
Our ends and births alike; in this, as I;
Poore thou wert born, and poore again shalt die.

My little fills my little-wishing minde;
Thou having more then much, yet seekest more:
Who seeks, still wishes what he seeks, to finde;
Who wishes, wants; and who so wants, is poore:"
Then this must follow of necessitie;
Poore are thy riches, rich my povertie.

Though still thou gett'st, yet is thy want not spent,
But as thy wealth, so growes thy wealthy itch:
But with my little I have much content;
Content hath all; and who hath all, is rich:
Then this in reason thou must needs confesse,
If I have little, yet that thou hast lesse.

What ever man possesses, God hath lent,
And to his audit liable is ever,
To reckon, how, and where, and when he spent:
Then this thou bragg'st, thou art a great receiver:
Little my debt, when little is my store:
The more thou hast, thy debt still growes the more.

But seeing God himself descended down
T'enrich the poore by his rich povertie;
His meat, his house, his grave, were not his own,
Yet all is his from all eternitie:
Let me be like my Head, whom I adore:
Be thou great, wealthie, I still base and poore.