Pia Desideria or, Divine Addresses, In Three Books. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by Edm. Arwaker ... The Fourth Edition, Corrected |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
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| XI. |
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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
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| VI. |
| VII. | VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 3. |
| I. |
| II. |
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| IV. |
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 | Pia Desideria |  |
109
VII.
Come my Beloved, let us go forth into the Fields, let us lodge in the Villages,
Cant. vii. 11,
Come, come, my Love, let's leave the busie Throng,
We trifle here our precious Time too long.
Come, let us hasten to some Field or Grove,
The fittest Theatres for Scenes of Love.
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true,
But what secures it thus, confines it too.
We'll reap the Pleasures of the open Field,
Which does Security with Freedom yield.
For there's I know not what, so safe, so dear
I'th' Country, as we ne'er shou'd light on here.
What tho' the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,
And o'er the Fields project their lofty shade?
Yet thence Content has made a far Retreat,
And chose the humble Cottages its Seat;
(Where something more divinely Sweet they breath,
Altho' all Thatch above, all Earth beneath.)
There the remotest Solitude enjoys
The Blessing of more Quiet, and less Noise.
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,
And leave this busie fond Impertinence.
See! ev'n the Cities eldest Son and Heir,
Who gets his Gold, his dear-lov'd Idol, there;
Yet in the Country spends his City-gains,
And makes its Pleasure recompence his Pains:
And tho' the City has his publick Voice,
The Country ever is his private Choice.
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,
Unbend their Minds in a secure Retreat;
And Heavn's free Canopy yields more Delight
Than guilded Roofs and Fret-work to the Sight.
Nor can fenc'd Cities keep the Mind in Peace,
So well as open guardless Villages.
Come then, my Love, let's from the City hast,
Each Minute we spend there, is so much waste.
We trifle here our precious Time too long.
Come, let us hasten to some Field or Grove,
The fittest Theatres for Scenes of Love.
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true,
But what secures it thus, confines it too.
We'll reap the Pleasures of the open Field,
Which does Security with Freedom yield.
For there's I know not what, so safe, so dear
I'th' Country, as we ne'er shou'd light on here.
What tho' the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,
And o'er the Fields project their lofty shade?
Yet thence Content has made a far Retreat,
And chose the humble Cottages its Seat;
(Where something more divinely Sweet they breath,
Altho' all Thatch above, all Earth beneath.)
110
The Blessing of more Quiet, and less Noise.
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,
And leave this busie fond Impertinence.
See! ev'n the Cities eldest Son and Heir,
Who gets his Gold, his dear-lov'd Idol, there;
Yet in the Country spends his City-gains,
And makes its Pleasure recompence his Pains:
And tho' the City has his publick Voice,
The Country ever is his private Choice.
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,
Unbend their Minds in a secure Retreat;
And Heavn's free Canopy yields more Delight
Than guilded Roofs and Fret-work to the Sight.
Nor can fenc'd Cities keep the Mind in Peace,
So well as open guardless Villages.
Come then, my Love, let's from the City hast,
Each Minute we spend there, is so much waste.
I have a Country-Farm, whose fertile Ground
Soft murmuring Brooks and chrystal Streams surround;
A better Air or Soil were never known,
Nor more convenient Distance from the Town:
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy Flight,
The City will no more thy Sense Delight,
Driv'n from thy Thoughts as quickly as thy Sight.
Here in the Shades I will my Dear Caress,
At leisure to receive my kind Address.
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,
I shall enjoy more than my Self, in Thee.
As o'er our Heads, dress'd in their leavy State,
The amorous Turtle wooes his faithful Mate.
No Bus'ness shall invade our Pleasure here,
No rude Disturber of our Joys appear.
Here thou thy secret Passions shalt reveal,
And whisper in my Ear the pleasing Tale;
While in Requital I disclose my Flame,
And in the fav'ring Shades conceal my Shame.
Oh! cou'd I see that Happy Happy Day!
I know no Bliss beyond, for which to Pray.
Then to the Country let us, Dear, repair,
For Love thrives best in the clear open Air.
Soft murmuring Brooks and chrystal Streams surround;
A better Air or Soil were never known,
Nor more convenient Distance from the Town:
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy Flight,
The City will no more thy Sense Delight,
Driv'n from thy Thoughts as quickly as thy Sight.
111
At leisure to receive my kind Address.
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,
I shall enjoy more than my Self, in Thee.
As o'er our Heads, dress'd in their leavy State,
The amorous Turtle wooes his faithful Mate.
No Bus'ness shall invade our Pleasure here,
No rude Disturber of our Joys appear.
Here thou thy secret Passions shalt reveal,
And whisper in my Ear the pleasing Tale;
While in Requital I disclose my Flame,
And in the fav'ring Shades conceal my Shame.
Oh! cou'd I see that Happy Happy Day!
I know no Bliss beyond, for which to Pray.
Then to the Country let us, Dear, repair,
For Love thrives best in the clear open Air.
What dost thou? How long do the Shadows of the Houses confine thee? How long does the Prison of the smoaky City shut thee up? Believe me, I see some greater Light, and am resolv'd to throw off the burthen of the Flesh, and fly to the splendor of the purer Air.
Hieron. Ep. ad Hesiod. 1.
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