About him still th' uneafy load he bears,
Spurr'd on with fruitlefs hopes, and curb'd with anxious
The man whose fortunes fit not to his mind,
The way to true content shall never find;
If the fhoe pinch, or if it prove too wide,
In that he walks in pain, in this he treads afide.
But you, my friend, in calm contentment live,
Always well pleas'd with what the Gods shall give;
Let not base shining pelf thy mind deprave,
Tyrant of fools, the wife man's drudge and slave;
And me reprove if I fhall crave for more,
Or feem the least uneafy to be poor.
Thus much I write, merry, and free from care,
And nothing covet, but thy presence here.
HAPPY the man, who, free from care,
Manures his own paternal fields,
Content, as his wife fathers were,
T' enjoy the crop his labour yields.
Nor ufury torments his breast,
That barters happiness for gain,
Nor war's alarms disturb his reft,
Nor hazards of the faithlefs main:
Nor at the loud tumultuous bar,
With coftly noife, and dear debate,
Proclaims an everlasting war;
Nor fawns on villains bafely great.
But for the vine felects a spouse,
Chafte emblem of the marriage-bed,
Or prunes the too luxuriant boughs,
And grafts more happy in their stead.
Or hears the lowing herds from far,
That fatten on the fruitful plains,
And ponders with delightful care,
The profpect of his future gains.
Or fhears his fheep that round him graze,
And droop beneath their curling loads
Or plunders his laborious bees
Of balmy nectar, drink of gods!
His chearful head when Autumn rears,
And bending boughs reward his pains,
Joyous he plucks the luscious pears,
The purple grape his finger stains.
Eeach honeft heart 's a welcome guest,
With tempting fruit his tables glow,
The Gods are bidden to the feast,
To share the bleffings they bestow.
Under an oak's protecting fhade,
In flowery meads profufely gay,
Supine he leans his peaceful head,
And gently loiters life away.
The vocal streams that murmuring flow,
Or from their springs complaining creep,
The birds that chirp on every bough,
Invite his yielding eyes to fleep.
But, when bleak storms and lowering Jove
Now fadden the declining year,
Through every thicket, every grove,
Swift he pursues the flying deer.
With deep-hung hounds he fweeps the plains
The hills, the vallies, fmoak around:
The woods repeat his pleasing pains,
And Echo propagates the found.
Or, pufh'd by his victorious fpear,
The grifly boar before him flies,
Betray'd by his prevailing fear
Into the toils, the monfter dies.
His towering falcon mounts the skies,
And cuts through clouds his liquid way;
Or elfe with fly deceit he tries
To make the leffer game his prey.
Who, thus poffefs'd of folid joy,
Would Love, that idle imp, adore?
Cloe 's coquet, Myrtilla 's coy,
And Phyllis is a perjur'd whore.
Adieu, fantastic idle flame!
Give me a profitable wife,
A careful, but obliging dame,
To foften all the toils of life:
Who fhall with tender care provide,
Against her weary spouse return,
With plenty fee his board supply'd,
And make the crackling billets burn:
And while his men and maids repair
To fold his sheep, to milk his kine,
With unbought dainties feast her dear,
And treat him with domeftic wine.
I view with pity and disdain
The coftly trifles coxcombs boaft,
Their Bourdeaux, Burgundy, Champaign,
Though fparkling with the brightest toaft.
Pleas'd with found manufacture more,
Than all the ftum the knaves impofe,
When the vain cully treats his whore,
At Brawn's, the Mitre, or the Rofe.
Let fops their fickly palates please,
With luxury's expensive store,
And feast each virulent disease
With dainties from a foreign fhore.
I, whom my little farm fupplies,
Richly on nature's bounty live;
The only happy are the wife,
Content is all the Gods can give.
While thus on wholesome cates I feast,
Oh! with what rapture I behold
My flocks in comely order hafte
'T' enrich with foil the barren fold!
The languid ox approaches flow,
To share the food his labours earn
Painful he tugs th' inverted plough,
Nor hunger quickens his return.
My wanton fwains, uncouthly gay,
About my fmiling hearth delight,
To fweeten the laborious day,
By many a merry tale at night.'
Thus spoke old Gripe, when bottles three
Of Burton ale, and fea-coal fire,
Unlock'd his breaft; refolv'd to be
A generous, honest, country fquire.
That very night his money lent,
On bond, or mortgage, he call'd in,
With lawful ufe of fix per cent.
Next morn, he put it out at ten.
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