Classic Poem

Happy the man which farre from city care,
(Such as ancient Mortals were)
With his own oxen plows his fathers land,
Free from Usurers griping hand.
The souldiers trumpets never breake his sleepe,
Nor angry seas that raging keepe.
He shunnes the wrangling Hall, nor foot doth set
On the proud thresholds of the Great:
His life is this (O life almost divine)
To marry Elmes unto the Vine;
To prune unfruitfull branches, and for them
To graft a bough of happier stemme.
Or else within the low couch'd vallies views
His well cloth'd flocks of bleating ewes.
Sometimes his hony he in pots doth keepe,
Sometimes he sheares his fleecy sheepe.
And when his fruits with Autumne ripened bee
Gathers his Apples from the Tree.
And joyes to tast the peares himselfe did plant,
And Grapes that naught of purple want.
Under an Oake sometimes he layes his head,
Making the tender grasse his bed.
Meane while the streames along their banks doe float,
And birds doe chaunt with warbling throat;
And gentle springs a gentle murmure keepe,
To lull him to a quiet sleepe.
When winter comes, and th' ayre doth chiller grow,
Threatning showers and shivering snow;
Either with hounds he hunts the tusked swine
That foe unto the corne and vine;
Or layes his nets, or limes the unctuous bush
To catch the blackbird, or the thrush.
Sometimes the Hare he courses, and one way
Makes both a pleasure and a prey.
But if with him a modest wife doth meet,
To guide his house and children sweet;
Such as the Sabine or Apulean wife,
Something brown but chast of life;
Such as will make a good warme fire to burne,
Against her wearied Mate's returne;
And shutting in her stalls her fruitfull Neat,
Will milke the kines distended Teat:
Fetching her husband of her selfe-brew'd beere,
And other wholesome Country cheere.
Suppe him with bread and cheese, Pudding or Pye,
Such dainties as they doe not buy:
Give me but these, and I shall never care
Where all the Lucrine oisters are;
These wholsome Country dainties shall to mee
Sweet as Tench or Sturgeon bee.
Had I but these I well could be without
The Carp , the Sammon , or the Trout ;
Nor should the Phaenix selfe so much delight
My not ambitious appetite,
As should an Apple snatch'd from mine owne trees,
Or hony of my labouring Bees.
My Cattels udders should afford me food,
My sheep my cloth, my ground my wood.
Sometimes a lambe, snatch'd from the wolfe shall bee
A banquet for my freind and mee.
Sometimes a Calfe ta'ne from her lowing Cow,
Or tender Issue of the Sow.
Our Gardens sallets yeild, Mallows to keepe
Loose bodies, Lettice for to sleepe.
The cakling Hen an egge for breakfast layes,
And Duck that in our water playes.
The Goose for us her tender plumes hath bred
To lay us on a softer bed.
Our blankets are not dy'd with Orphans teares,
Our Pillows are not stuff'd with cares.
To walke on our owne grounds a stomack gets,
The best of sawce to tart our meats.
In midst of such a feast, 'tis joy to come
And see the well fed Lambs at home.
Tis pleasure to behold th' inversed Plow
The Languid necks of Oxen bow.
And view th' industrious servants that will sweat
Both at labour and at meat.
Lord grant me but enough; I aske no more
Then will serve mine, and helpe the poore.