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All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched on a curious bed,

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Listen to Phineas Fletcher, another poet of the golden age; how fresh and invigorating is the fcene which he presents to our view! and how fimple and healthy are the occupations of the folding and unfolding of the flock, which form the fole charge and only care of the gentle and happy fhepherds!

Thrice, oh thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness' unhappy pawns!

His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune with her scorns and fawns:
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep;
Singing all day, his flock he learns to keep,
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise,
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes :
In country plays is all the strife he uses;

Or sing, or dance unto the rural muses;

And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,

Is full of thousand sweets and rich content :
The smooth leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent ;

His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease;

Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

D

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;
His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house nor state torment him :

Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;

And when he dies, green turfs with grassy tomb content him.

With the dawn of day the fhepherds awaken to the pleasant call of John Fletcher, the companion of Beaumont,—

Shepherds, rise and shake off sleep-
See the blushing morn doth peep
Through your windows, while the sun.
To the mountain-tops has run,
Gilding all the vales below

With his rising flames, which grow

Brighter with his climbing still

Up! ye lazy swains! and fill

Bag and bottle for the field!

Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield

To the bitter north-east wind;

Call the maidens up, and find
Who lies longest, that she may
Be chidden for untimed delay.
Feed your faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay;
So unfold, and then-away.

At close of day, the flocks are to be folded, fo

Shepherds all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course has run.

See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Every little flower that is
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads ;
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground;
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of those pastures where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore, from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,

Lest the wolf come as a scout

From the mountain, and, ere day,

Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty thievish foe

Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourself from these

Be not too secure in ease;

So shall you good shepherds prove,

And deserve your master's love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers

And soft silence fall in numbers

On your eyelids! so farewell!

Thus I end my evening knell !

There are few portraits drawn with greater care, or finish, than that one by the hands of Sir Thomas Overbury, of "A Fayre and happy milk-maid."

"The golden eares of corne fall and kiffe her feet when she reapes them as if they wifht to be bound and led prifoners by the

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fame hand that fell'd them. Her breath is her own, which scents all the yeare long of June, like a new made hay cocke. She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart foft with pity; and when winter evenings fall early (fitting at her merrie wheele), fhe fings a defiance to the giddy wheele of fortune. She doth all things with fo fweet a grace, it seems ignorance will not fuffer her to do ill, feeing her mind is to doe well. The garden and bee-hive are all her phyfick and chyrurgerye, and fhe lives the longer for't. She dares goe alone, and unfold sheepe i' the night, and feares no manner of ill because she means none; yet, to say truth, fhe is never alone, for she is still accompanied with old fongs, honeft thoughts, and prayers, but short ones, yet they have their efficacy in that they are not pauled with enfuing idle cogitations. Thus lives fhe, and all her care is that she may die in the Spring-time, to have store of flowers ftucke upon her winding sheete."

England has shepherds now, and her hills and dales afford pasture for countless flocks; but it is not "merrie England,” as in the days of yore: it is a land of exports and imports, a huge trading nation, the battle-ground of competition; the arena of peaceful—or, as it is the fashion to term it, "industrial strife.” Dyer's prophecy, in his poem of "The Fleece," now a century old, is rapidly being fulfilled.

Shall we burst strong Darien's chain,
Steer our bold fleets between the cloven rocks,

And through the great Pacific every joy

Of civil life diffuse? Are not her isles

Numerous and large?

Have they not harbours calm,

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