University of Virginia Library

EPODE II.

How Rich is he, who free from Care
As the first happy Mortals were,
His fat paternal Acres plows,
No Mortgage, no Incumbrance knows?
He shuns the Sea, the Camp, and Arms,
Where Trumpets sound their shrill Alarms,
He flies the noisy Bench and Court,
And Levee, where proud Slaves resort,
His only Care is, when to join
The lofty Elm, and tender Vine;
Whilst in the Vale beneath he views
His wandring Sheep, and grazing Cows.
Sometimes he prunes the useless Shoots,
And grafts a Branch of better Fruits;
Or casks the Honey's luscious Juice,
Or shears his tender sickly Ewes.
When Autumn's fruitful Month appears,
He gathers, with Delight, the Pears
And Purple Grapes, so red, so sweet,
From Trees and Vines himself had set
His Off'rings to Priapus yields,
And Faunus, Guardian of his Fields.
Sometimes he basks beneath the Shade,
Or on the Grass supinely laid,
Close by some Brook, or limpid Spring,
Whilst all the wing'd Musicians sing:
The Riv'lets murmur as they creep,
And gently lull the Swain to sleep.
Soon as the Storms and Cold draw near,
And Jove inverts the frosty Year,
He calls his Dogs, his Toils he lays,
And gives the savage Boar the Chace;
Or spread his Nets around the Bush,
To catch the poor deluded Thrush;
Courses the Hare along the Plain,
And takes the foreign stately Crane.
Such Pleasures, and such Sports remove
All Thoughts of Care, and Pains of Love:
But if a Race of prattling Boys,
And gentle Spouse partake his Joys,
Some Sabine Matron, hail and brown,
Tann'd by the scorching Summer Sun;
She stirs the Fire, and makes it burn,
Against her Husband's wish'd return;
Or pens the Ewes that play and bleat,
And drains the swelling, milky Teat:
She, and her Spouse, and Children, dine
On home-bred Cales, and this Year's Wine.
The Lucrine Oysters I disdain,
And all the Dainties of the Main,
Which, when the Eastern Tempests roar,
Are wafted to the Latian Shore:
I nor in Turkey take Delight,
Nor long for Partridge, or for Snite:
My Board with luscious Olives spread,
Or Sorrel from the verdant Mead;
Or Mallows of salubrious Juice,
That keep the temp'rate Body loose;
Or tender Lambkin, sweet Repast,
Which hungry Wolves in vain had chas'd.
Or Kid with savory Sallets dress'd,
To crown some solemn Sylvan Feast.
Whilst thus we fatten and carouze,
How sweet the pleasing Prospect shows,
Of Flocks returning in a Row,
And Bullocks from the Yoke and Plow!
Whilst all the little Troops of Swains
Around the Lares sport and dance.
Thus Alfius spake, resolv'd to try
The Countrey's sweet Variety:
He call'd his Money in, and then—
The Miser put it out agen.