The Country Life

Sweet country life, to such unknown,

Whose lives are others', not their own!

But serving courts and cities, be

Less happy, less enjoying thee.

Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam

To seek and bring rough pepper home:

Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove

To bring from thence the scorched clove:

Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,

Bring'st home the ingot from the West.

No, thy ambition's master-piece

Flies no thought higher than a fleece:

Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear

All scores: and so to end the year:

But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,

Not envying others' larger grounds:

For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent

Of land makes life, but sweet content.

When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)

Calls forth the lily-wristed morn;

Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,

Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know

That the best compost for the lands

Is the wise master's feet, and hands.

There at the plough thou find'st thy team,

With a hind whistling there to them:

And cheer'st them up, by singing how

The kingdom's portion is the plough.

This done, then to th' enamell'd meads

Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads,

Thou seest a present God-like power

Imprinted in each herb and flower:

And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,

Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.

Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat

Unto the dew-laps up in meat:

And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,

The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,

To make a pleasing pastime there.

These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks

Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,

And find'st their bellies there as full

Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool:

And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,

A shepherd piping on a hill.

For sports, for pageantry, and plays,

Thou hast thy eves, and holydays:

On which the young men and maids meet,

To exercise their dancing feet:

Tripping the comely country Round,

With daffadils and daisies crown'd.

Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,

Thy May-poles too with garlands graced;

Thy Morris-dance; thy Whitsun-ale;

Thy shearing-feast, which never fail.

Thy harvest home; thy wassail bowl,

That's toss'd up after Fox i' th' hole:

Thy mummeries; thy Twelve-tide kings

And queens; thy Christmas revellings:

Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,

And no man pays too dear for it. —

To these, thou hast thy times to go

And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow:

Thy witty wiles to draw, and get

The lark into the trammel net:

Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade

To take the precious pheasant made:

Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls then

To catch the pilfering birds, not men.

— O happy life! if that their good

The husbandmen but understood!

Who all the day themselves do please,

And younglings, with such sports as these:

And lying down, have nought t' affright

Sweet Sleep, that makes more short the night.

CAETERA DESUNT —