And shakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:

The little or the much she gave, is quietly refign'd:
Content with poverty, my foul I arm;

And virtue, tho in rags, will keep me warm. X.

What is't to me,

Who never fail in her unfaithful fea,

If ftorms arife, and clouds grow

black;

If the maft fplit, and threaten wreck ? Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear
His wealth into the main.

For me, fecure from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lofe,

In

my small pinance I can fail,
Contemning all the bluft'ring roar;

And running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my fafety feek
Within fome little winding creek;
And fee the storm afhore.

THE SECOND EPODE

O F

HOR A

A CE.

HOW

OW happy in his low degree,
How rich in humble poverty, is he,

Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of bufinefs, void of ftrife,
And from the griping fcrivener free ?
Thus, ere the feeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets fummon him to war,
Nor drums disturb his morning fleep,
Nor knows he merchants gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamors of contentious law,

And court and state, he wifely fhuns,
Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To fervile falutations runs ;
But either to the clafping vine

Does the fupporting poplar wed,
Or with his pruning-hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more happy in their ftead:

Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar,
Or fheers his overburden'd fheep,
Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.
Or in the now declining year,

When bounteous autumn rears his head,

He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And cluftring grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he ferves,

Priapus, thy rewards:

Sylvanus too his part deserves,

Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grafs he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke;
The stream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays
Maintains the confort of the fong;
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden fleep prolong.

But when the blast of winter blows,

And hoary frost inverts the year,

Into the naked woods he goes,

And feeks the tufty boar to rear,

With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear!

Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight
With twinkling glaffes, to betray
The larks that in the meshes light,

Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys

No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind deftroys, Nor wicked avarice of wealth. But if a chafte and pleafing wife, To ease the business of his life, Divides with him his houfhold care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift. Apulian's bride, Sun-burnt and fwarthy tho fhe be, Will fire for winter nights provide, And without noife will overfee His children and his family; And order all things till he come, Sweaty and overlabor'd, home; If the in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive

away

the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor;

Not oysters of the Lucrine lake
My fober appetite would wish,
Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
That rowling tempefts overtake,
And hither waft the costly dish.

1

Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,
Which Phafis or Ionia yields,
More pleasing morfels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields;
Than fhards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loofen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot
To the just guardian of my ground.
Amidft these feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd fmiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen fweating fmoke,
Bear on their necks the loofen'd yoke;
To look his menial crew,

upon

That fit around his chearful hearth,

And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholefome food and country mirth.

This Morecraft faid within himself,

Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:

And live retir'd upon his own,

He call'd his money in;

But the prevailing love of pelf,

Soon fplit him on the former fhelf,
He put it out again.

The End of the Second VOLUME.