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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 for 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;

For sports, for pageantry, and plays, Thou hast thy eves and holy-days, On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet; Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crown'd. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun alc, Thy shearing feast, which never fail; Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, That's tost up after fox i' th' hole; Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings And queens, and Christmas revellings; Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it.

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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 dewlaps 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 the hill.

To these thou hast thy time to go,

And trace the hare in the treacherous snow: Thy witty wiles to draw, and get

The lark into the trammel net;

Thou hast thy cock rood, and thy glade,

To take the precious pheasant made!
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, 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.


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AN anything be so elegant as to have few wants and serve them one's self? Parched corn, and a house with one apartment, that I may be free of all perturbations, that

I may be serene and docile to what the mind shall speak, and girt and road-ready for the lowest mission of knowledge or goodness, is frugality for gods and heroes.


OD made the country and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threatened in the fields and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve

The moonbeam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendor of your lamps; they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

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Here blossoms the clover, white and red,
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread,
And the millet lifts her golden head;
And, ripening, closely neighbored by
Fields of barley and pale white rye,
The yellow wheat grows strong and high.
And near, untried through the summer days,
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze,
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize.

Straying over the side of the hill,
The sheep run to and fro at will,
Nibbling of short green grass their fill.

How, just beyond, if it will not tire
Your feet to climb this green knoll higher,
We can see the pretty village spire;
And, mystic haunt of the whippoorwills,
The wood, that all the background fills,
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills.
There, miles away, like a faint blue line,
Whenever the day is clear and fine,
You can see the track of a river shine.

Near it a city hides unseen,
Shut close the verdant hills between,
As an acorn set in its cup of green.

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