Happy too much, the former age
With faithful field content,
Not lost by sluggish lust,
That wonts the long fasts
To loose by sun-begotten acorn;
That knew not Bacchus' gifts
With molten honey mixed,
Nor silken shining fleece
With Tyrian venom dyed.
Sound sleeps gave the grass;
Their drink the running stream;
Shades gave the highest pine.
The depth of sea they fathomed not,
Nor wares, chosen from far,
Made strangers find new shores.
Then were the navies still;
Nor bloodshed, by cruel hate
Had fearful weapons stained.
What first fury to foes, should
Any arms raise,
When cruel wounds he saw,
And no reward for blood?
Would God [that] again our former time
To wonted manners [let] fall!
But greedy-getting love burns
Sorer than Aetna with her flames.
O who the first man was
Of hidden gold the weight,
Or gems that willing lurked
The dear danger dig'd.