The Praises of a Country-life

Happy is he, that from all Business clear,
As the old Race of Mankind were,
With his own Oxen tills his Sires left Lands,
And is not in the Usurers Bands:
Nor Soldier-like started with rough Alarms,
Nor dreads the Seas inraged harms:
But flees the Bar and Courts, with the proud bords,
And waiting Chambers of great Lords.
The Poplar tall, he then doth marrying twine
With the grown issue of the Vine;
And with his Hook lops off the fruitless Race,
And sets more happy in the Place:
Or in the bending Vale beholds a-far
The lowing Herds there grazing are:
Or the prest Honey in pure Pots doth keep
Of Earth, and shears the tender Sheep:
Or when that Autumn, through the Fields lifts round
His Head, with mellow Apples crown'd,
How plucking Pears, his own hand grafted had,
And Purple-matching Grapes, he's glad!
With which, Priapus, he may thank thy Hands,
And, Sylvane, thine that keptst his Lands!
Then now beneath some ancient Oak he may
Now in the rooted Grass him lay,
Whilst from the higher Banks do slide the Floods?
The soft Birds quarrel in the Woods,
The Fountains murmur as the Streams do creep,
And all invite to easie sleep.
Then when the thundring Jove, his Snow and Showers
Are gathering by the Wintry hours;
Or hence, or thence, he drives with many a Hound
Wild Boars into his Toils pitch'd round:
Or strains on his small Fork his subtil Nets
For th' eating Thrush, or Pit-falls sets:
And snares the fearful Hare, and new-come Crane,
And 'counts them sweet Rewards so ta'en.
Who (amongst these delights) would not forget
Loves cares so Evil, and so great?
But if, to boot with these, a chaste Wife meet
For Houshold aid, and Children sweet;
Such as the Sabines, or a Sun-burnt-blowse,
Some lusty quick Apulians Spouse,
To deck the hallow'd Harth with old Wood fir'd
Against the Husband comes home tir'd;
That penning the glad flock in Hurdles by
Their swelling Udders doth draw dry:
And from the sweet Tub Wine of this year takes,
And unbought Viands ready makes:
Not Lucrine Oysters I could then more prize,
Nor Turbot, nor bright Golden Eyes:
If with bright Floods, the Winter troubled much,
Into our Seas send any such:
Th' Ionian God-wit, nor the Ginny-hen
Could not go down my Belly then
More sweet than Olives, that new gather'd be
From fattest Branches of the Tree:
Or the Herb Sorrel, that loves Meadows still,
Or Mallows loosing Bodies ill:
Or at the Feast of Bounds, the Lamb then slain,
Or Kid forc't from the Wolf again.
Among these Cates how glad the sight doth come
Of the fed Flocks approaching home!
To view the weary Oxen draw, with bare
And fainting Necks, the turned Share!
The wealthy Houshold swarm of Bondmen met,
And 'bout the steeming Chimney set!
These thoughts when Usurer Alphius, now about
To turn more Farmer, had spoke out
'Gainst th' Ides, his Moneys he gets in with pain,
At th' Calends puts all out again.

From: Underwoods, 1640.

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