*16*
THE COUNTRY LIFE:
TO THE HONOURED MR ENDYMION PORTER, GROOM OF THE BED-CHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTY
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--
*17*
TO PHILLIS, TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see The pleasures I'll prepare for thee:
What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board.
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed, With crawling woodbine over-spread:
By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing next, shall be a gown Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat The paste of filberts for thy bread With cream of cowslips buttered:
Thy feasting-table shall be hills With daisies spread, and daffadils;
Where thou shalt sit, and Red-breast by, For meat, shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave;
So that as either shall express The wearer's no mean shepherdess.
At shearing-times, and yearly wakes, When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay more, the feast, and grace of it.
On holydays, when virgins meet To dance the heys with nimble feet, Thou shalt come forth, and then appear The Queen of Roses for that year.
And having danced ('bove all the best)
Carry the garland from the rest, In wicker-baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherdling, The blushing apple, bashful pear, And shame-faced plum, all simp'ring there.
Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phillis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree;
Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee.
To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribbands, to this end, This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep, than me.
Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spiced wine;
To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth.
Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings, Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move Others to lust, but me to love.
--These, nay, and more, thine own shall be, If thou wilt love, and live with me.
*18*
THE WASSAIL
Give way, give way, ye gates, and win An easy blessing to your bin And basket, by our entering in.
May both with manchet stand replete;
Your larders, too, so hung with meat, That though a thousand, thousand eat, Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about Their silv'ry spheres, there's none may doubt But more's sent in than was served out.
Next, may your dairies prosper so, As that your pans no ebb may know;
But if they do, the more to flow, Like to a solemn sober stream, Bank'd all with lilies, and the cream Of sweetest cowslips filling them.
Then may your plants be press'd with fruit, Nor bee or hive you have be mute, But sweetly sounding like a lute.
Last, may your harrows, shares, and ploughs, Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows, All prosper by your virgin-vows.
--Alas! we bless, but see none here, That brings us either ale or beer;
In a dry-house all things are near.
Let's leave a longer time to wait, Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate;
And all live here with needy fate;
