Book XI, Epigram 57: In Cheraemonem

Stoick Cheraemon cause that thou
Canst cry up death I know not how
Thou would'st have me this thy fortitude admire:
Some broken Pitcher bred in thee
This seeming piece of gallantrie,
Or else some frozen Chimney without Fire;
A noysom Worm, or Coverlid,
Or Side-piece of thy naked Bed,
Or a short Coat worn by thee day and night,
O what a mighty Man thou'lt seem
That canst the Dregs of sower red Wine,
And thatch, and poor course black bread dare to slight!
But yet suppose thy Couch should bee
Stuft with Leuconick wooll for thee,
And Purple Vallions should thy Bed attire,
And that thy Boy with thee should sleep,
Which fill'd rich Wine with rosy lip
And set thy love-inflamed guests on fire?
O how wouldst thou then wish to see
Thrice Nestor's years fullfill'd in thee?
And not a minute of a day loss'd have?
To slight a life in miserie
Is nothing: But he that can bee
Contentedly distress'd is truly brave.