Trivial poems and triolets. Written in obedience to Mrs Tomkin's commands, By Patrick Carey |
THE COUNTRY LIFE. |
Trivial poems | ||
THE COUNTRY LIFE.
1
Fondlings! keepe to th'citty,Yee shall haue my pitty;
But my envy, not:
Since much larger measure
Of true pleasure
I'me sure's in the country gott.
2
Here's noe dinne, noe hurry,None seekes here to curry
Fauour, by base meanes:
Flatt'ry's hence excluded;
Hee's secluded
Who speakes ought, but what hee meanes.
3
Though your talcke, and weeds beeGlittering, yett your deeds bee
Poore, wee them dispize:
Silken are our actions,
And our pactions,
Though our coates and words bee frize.
23
4
Here's noe lawyer brawling;Rising poore, rich falling;
Each is what hee was:
That wee have, enioying;
Not annoying
Any good, another has.
5
There y'haue ladyes gawdy;Dames, that can talke bawdy;
True, w'haue none such here:
Yett our girles loue surely,
And haue purely
Cheekes unpainted, soules most cleare.
6
Sweet, and fresh our ayre is;Each brooke coole, and fayre is;
On the grasse wee treade:
Foule's your ayre, streets, water;
And thereafter
Are the liues which there you leade.
7
Not our time in drenching,Cramming, gaming, wenching,
Here wee cast away:
Yett wee too, are jolly;
Melancholly
Comes not neare us, night nor day.
8
Scarce the morne is peepingBut wee straight leaue sleeping,
From our beds wee rise:
24
And there ply wee
Wholsome, harmelesse exercise.
9
Each comes back a winner;Each brings home his dinner,
Which was first his sport:
And uppon itt feasting,
Toying, ieasting,
W'enuy not your cates att court.
10
Th'afternoones wee loose not,Idlenesse wee choose not,
But are still employ'd:
Dancers some, some bowlers,
Some are fowlers,
Some in angling most are ioy'd.
11
Th'euening home-wards brings us,Whither hunger wings us;
Ready soone's our food:
Spare, light, sweet to th'pallett,
And a sallett
To refresh our heated blood.
12
Pleasantly then talkingForth wee goe a walking;
Thence returne to rest:
Noe sad dreame incumbers
Our sweet slumbers;
Innocence thus makes us blest.
25
13
Keepe now, keepe to th'cittyFondlings! y' haue my pitty,
But my enuy, not:
Since much larger measure
Of true pleasure
You see's in the country gott.
Trivial poems | ||