Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Happy the man which farre from city care,
(Such as ancient Mortals were)
VVith his own oxen plows his fathers land,
Free from Usurers griping hand.
The souldiers trumpets never break his sleep,
Nor angry seas that raging keep
He shuns the wrangling Hall, nor foot doth set
On the proud thresholds of the Great:
His life is this (O life almost divine!)
To marry Elmes unto the Vine;
To prune unfruitfull branches, and for them
To graft a bough of happier stem.
Or else within the low couch'd vallies views
His well cloath'd flocks of bleating ews.
Sometimes his honey he in pots doth keep,
Sometimes he shears his fleecy sheep.
And when his fruits with Autumn ripened be,
Gathers his Apples from the tree.
And joyes to tast the Pears himself did plant,
And Grapes that naught of purple want.
Under an Oak sometimes he layes his head,
Making the tender grasse his bed.
Mean while the streams along their banks do float,
And birds do chaunt with warbling throat,
And gentle springs a gentle murmure keep,
To lull him to a quiet sleep.
When winter comes, and th'ayre doth chiller grow,
Threatning showers, and shivering snow,
Either with hounds he hunts the tusked swine

That foe unto the corn and vine;
Or layes his nets, or limes the unctious bush
To catch the black-bird, or the thrush.
Sometimes the Hare he courses, and one way
Makes both a pleasure and a prey.
But if with him a modest wife doth meet,
To guide his house and children sweet,
Such as the Sabine or Apulean wife,
Something brown, but chast of life;
Such as will make a good warm fire to burn,
Against her wearied Mate's return,
And shutting in her stalls her fruitfull Neat,
Will make the kines distended Teats
Fetching her husband of her self-brewd beer,
And other wholsome Countrey cheer.
Sup him with bread and cheese, Pudding or bye,
Such dainties as they do not any:
Give me but these, and I shall never care
VVhere all the Lucrine Oisters are,
These wholsome Country dainties shall to me
Sweet as Tench or Sturgeon be.
Had I but these, I well could be without
The Carp, the Sammon, or the Traut:
Nor should the Phænix selfe so much delight
My not ambitions appetite,
As should an Apple snatch'd from mine own trees
Or honey of my labouring Bees.
My Cattels udders should afford me food,
My sheep my cloath, my ground my wood,
Sometimes a lamb, snatch'd from the wolf shall be
A banquet for my friend and me.
Sometimes a Calf, ta'en from the lowing Cow,
Or tender Issue of the Sow.

Our gardens sallets yeeld, Mallows to keep
Loose bodies, Lettice for to sleep.
The cackliog Hen an egg for breakfast layes,
And Duck that in our water playes.
The Goose for us her tender plumes hath bred,
To lay us on a softer bed.
Our blankets are not dy'd with Orphans tears,
Our pillows are not stuff'd with cares.
To walk on our own ground a stomack gets,
The best of sauce to cure our meats.
In midst of such a feast 'tis joy to come
And seel the well-fed Lambs at home.
'Tis pleasure to behold th'inversed Plow,
The Languid necks of Oxen bow.
And view th'industrious servants that will sweat
Both at labour and at meat.
Lord grant me but enough; I aske no more,
Then will serve mine, and help the poore.