With that Heav'n gave thee with a wary hand,
More blessed in thy brass than land,
To keep cheap nature even and upright;
To cool, not cocker appetite :
Thus thou can❜st tersely live to satisfy
The belly chiefly, not the eye;
Keeping the barking stomach wisely quiet,
Less with a neat than needful diet.

But that, which most makes sweet thy country life,
Is the fruition of a wife;

Whom, stars consenting with thy fate, thou hast
Got, not so beautiful as chaste;
By whose warm side thou dost securely sleep,
While Love the centinel doth keep,

With those deeds done by day, which ne'er affright
Thy silken slumbers in the night.

Nor has the darkness pow'r to usher in

Fear to those sheets, that know no sin. The damask'd meadows, and the pebbly streams Sweeten, and make soft your dreams;

The purling springs, groves, birds, and well-weav'd bowr's,

With fields enamelled with flow'rs,

Present their shapes; while fantasy discloses
Millions of lilies mix'd with roses :

Then dream ye hear the lamb by many a bleat
Woo'd to come suck the milky teat;
While Faunus in the vision comes, to keep
From rav'ning wolves the fleecy sheep:
With thousand such enchanting dreams, that meet
To make sleep not so sound, as sweet:

Nor can these figures so thy rest endear,

As not to rise when chanticleer

Warns the last watch; but with the dawn dost rise

To work, but first to sacrifice;

Making thy peace with heav'n, for some late fault, With holy meal and spirting salt;

Which done, thy painful thumb this sentence tells us, "Jove for our labour all things sells us." Nor are thy daily, and devout affairs,

Attended with those desp❜rate cares

Th' industrious merchant has, who, for to find
Gold, runneth to the Western Ind

And back again; tortur'd with fears, doth fly,
Untaught to suffer poverty.

But thou at home, blest with securest ease,
Sitt'st, and believ'st that there be seas
And wat❜ry dangers; while thy whiter hap
But sees these things within thy map;
And, viewing them with a more safe survey,
Mak'st easy fear unto thee say,

"A heart thrice wall'd with oak and brass that man* "Had, first durst plough the ocean!"

But thou at home, without or tide or gale,
Can'st in thy map securely sail,

Seeing those painted countries; and so guess
By those fine shades their substances;
And, from thy compass taking small advice,
Buy'st travel at the lowest price.

Nor are thine ears so deaf, but thou can'st hear,
Far more with wonder than with fear,

Fame tell of states, of countries, courts, and kings,
And believe there be such things;

When of these truths, thy happier knowledge lies

* Illi robur, et æs triplex

Circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci
Commisit pelago ratem

Primus.

HORAT. Ode 3. Lib. 1.

More in thine ears than in thine eyes.
And when thou hear'st by that too true report
Vice rules the most, or all at court;
Thy pious wishes are, though thou not there,
Virtue had, and mov'd her sphere.

But thou liv'st fearless; and thy face ne'er shews
Fortune when she comes, or goes;

But with thy equal thoughts prepar'd dost stand
To take her by the either hand:

Nor car'st which comes the first, the foul, or fair;
A wise man ev'ry way lies square;
And, like a surly oak with storms perplext,

Grows still the stronger, strongly vext:
Be so, bold spirit! stand center-like unmov'd;
And be not only thought, but prov'd
To be what I report thee; and inure

Thyself, if want comes, to endure;
And so thou dost; for thy desires are
Confin'd to live with private Lar:
Not curious whether appetite be fed

Or with the first, or second bread:
Who keep'st no proud mouth for delicious cates;
Hunger makes coarse meats delicates:
Can'st, and unurg'd, forsake that larded fare,
Which art, not nature, makes so rare,
To taste boil'd nettles, coleworts, beets, and eat
These and sour herbs, as dainty meat;
While soft opinion makes thy genius say,
"Content makes all ambrosia."

Nor is it that thou keep'st this stricter size
So much for want, as exercise;

To numb the sense of dearth, which, should sin

haste it,

Thou might'st but only see't, not taste it.

Yet can thy humble roof maintain a quire

Of singing crickets by thy fire;

And the brisk mouse may feast herself with crumbs, Till that the green-ey'd kitling comes;

Then to her cabin, blest she can escape

The sudden danger of a rape.

And thus thy little well-kept stock doth prove
Wealth cannot make a life, but love.
Nor art thou so close-handed, but can'st spend,
Counsel concurring with the end,

As well as spare; still conning o'er this theme,
To shun the first and last extreme.

Ordaining that thy small stock find no breach,
Or to exceed thy tether's reach;

But to live round, and close, and wisely true
To thine ownself, and known to few.

Thus let thy rural sanctuary be

Elysium to thy wife, and thee;

There to disport yourselves with golden measure;
For seldom use commends the pleasure.
Live, and live blest, thrice happy pair! let breath,
But lost to one, be th' others death;

And as there is one love, one faith, one troth;
Be so one death, one grave to both:

Till when, in such assurance live, ye may
Nor fear, nor wish your dying day.

XXXV.

LYRICK TO MIRTH.

WHILE the milder fates consent,

Let's enjoy our merriment;

Drink, and dance, and pipe, and play;

Kiss our dollies night and day:

Crown'd with clusters of the vine,
Let us sit and quaff our wine;
Call on Bacchus, chant his praise,
Shake the thyrse, and bite the bays;
Rouse Anacreon from the dead,
And return him drunk to bed;
Sing o'er Horace, for e'er long
Death will come, and mar the song.
Then shall Wilson, and Goutire*
Never sing, or play more here.

XXXVI.

UPON JULIA'S RIBAND.

As shews the air, when with a rainbow grac'd, So smiles that riband 'bout my Julia's waist; nay, 'tis that zonulet of love, +Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.

Or like

XXXVII.

THE FROZEN ZONE, OR JULIA DISDAINFUL.

WHITHER, say, whither shall I fly,
To slack these flames wherein I fry?
To the treasures shall I go

Of the rain, frost, hail, and snow?

* A celebrated musical composer, and lutanist, much in favour with Charles the first.

A nearly similar conceit occurs in the following lines of a cotemporary bard, from his poem on a Girdle, which he denominates

A narrow compass; and yet there

Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

WALLER.