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Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the west.
No; thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece ;
Or how to pay thy hands, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year;
But walk'st about thy own dear grounds,
Not craving others' larger bounds;
For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock, the ploughman's horn,
Calls for the lily-wristed morn,
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which, though well soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands.
There, at the plough, thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them ;
And cheer'st them up by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamelled meads
Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present god-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower;
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.
Here thou behold'st thy large, sleek neat,
Unto the dewlaps up in meat ;
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near,
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox;
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on the hill.
For sports, for pageantry, and plays,
Thou hast thy eves and holy-days,
On which the young men and maids meet
To exercise their dancing feet ;
Tripping the comely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crowned.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands graced;
Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun ale,
Thy shearing feast, which never fail;
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl,
That's tost up after fox i’ th' hole ;
Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-night kings
And queens, and Christmas revellings;
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.
To these thou hast thy time to go,
And trace the hare in the treacherous snow :
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net ;
Thou hast thy cock-rood, and thy glade,
To take the precious pheasant made !
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then,
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life, if that their good
The husbandmen but understood !
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these ;
And, lying down, have nought t'affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
“WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER ?”
[Sir John SUCKLING was born at Witham, in Middlesex, in 1609, and was educated under the superintendence of his father, who was Secretary of State to James I. and comptroller of the household to Charles I. When he had completed his studies, young Suckling went abroad, and travelled through various countries. He served in Germany, under Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden ; and, when he returned to England, associated with the most celebrated wits of the time. Attempting, with others, to deliver Strafford from the Tower, he was ordered to appear at the bar of the House of Commons; but, instead of obeying, he set out for France. While stopping at an inn on the road, Suckling was robbed by his servant, who, to prever.t pursuit, stuck the blade of a penknife inside his master's boot, and when Sir John, in haste, attempted to draw it on, he received a wound, of which he died. This was in 1641.)
Why so pale and wan, fond lover ?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail ?
Prithee, why so pale ?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner ?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't ?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her ;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.
“I LOVE (AND HAVE SOME CAUSE TO LOVE)
[FRANCIS QUARLES was born near Romford in Essex, in 1592 : was educated at Cambridge, and afterwards became a student of Lincoln's Inn. He was cupbearer to Elizabeth, daughter of James I. until her husband became King of Bohemia; he was then made Secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland; and afterwards Chronologer to the City of London. He died in 1644 ; his death being accelerated, it is supposed, by the ill treatment he received from the Republicans.
Quarles' “Divine Emblems” were, and continue to be, the most popular of his works. His tendency to Puritanical sentiments, though a Royalist, was probably the cause of his writings being entirely neglected after the Restoration. His epigrammatic productions exhibit the rare union of wit and devotion ; but he disobeyed the advice he gave to others :-“Clothe not thy language either with obscurity or affectation."]
I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth :
She is my Maker's creature ; therefore good :
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse—she gives me food;
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee ?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?