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is not one of the distinct and separate sensibilities of the heart, standing by itself and to be examined and understood alone, so much as it is a general sensibilility which mingles with and tempers all others — which spreads its cast and character over the whole. It is not the rock on the landscape nor the rill — it is not the distant mountain of fading blue which loses its head in the heavens — it is not the tree, or the flower, or the contrast between light and shade, or that indescribable something which seems to give it life, as if the grass grew, and the flowers breathed, and the winds were singing some song of pleasure or sighing some mournful requiem. It is none of these. These can be more clearly described. But it is rather that softness, that mellow light, which lies over the whole — which sleeps on rock, and river, and tree, on the bosom of the distant mountain, and on the bosom of the humble violet that blushes in the sweetness of its lowly valley. Content is a general cast of sensibility which lies all over the heart.

(L. S. Spencer, D. D.)

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KJV: Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.

WEB: Not that I speak in respect to lack, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content in it.