Who makes her children and the house her care,
And joyfully the work of life does fhare,
Nor thinks herself too noble or too fine
To pin the sheepfold or to milch the kine,
Who waits at door against her husband come,
From rural duties, late, and wearied home,
Where the receives him with a kind embrace,
A chearful fire, and a more chearful face:
And fills the bowl up to her homely lord,
And with domestic plenty loads the board;
Not all the luftful shell-fish of the sea,
Drefs'd by the wanton hand of luxury,
Nor ortalans nor godwits, nor the reft
Of coftly names that glorify a feast,
Are at the princely tables better chear,
Than lamb and kid, lettuce and olives here.
THE COUNTRY MOUSE.
A Paraphrafe upon HORACE, Book II. Sat. vi.
AT the large foot of a fair hollow tree,
Close to plough'd ground, feated commodiously,
His antient and hereditary house,
There dwelt a good fubftantial country mouse ;
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main,
Yet, one, who once did nobly entertain
A city moufe, well coated, fleek, and gay,
A mouse of high degree, which loft his way,
Wantonly walking forth to take the air,
And arriv'd early, and belighted there [f],
[f] belighted there] A humorously formed word, in allufion to benighted; to be overtaken by light, beVOL. II. G
For a day's lodging: the good hearty hoaft,
(The antient plenty of his hall to boast)
Did all the ftores produce, that might excite,
With various taftes, the courtier's appetite.
Fitches and beans, peafon, oats, and wheat,
And a large chesnut, the delicious meat
Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would ea
And, før a haut gouft, there was mixt with these
The swerd of bacon, and the coat of cheese :
The precious reliques, which at harvest, he
Had gather'd from the reapers luxury.
Freely (faid he) fall on and never fpare,
The bounteous gods will for to-morrow care.
And thus at eafe, on beds of ftraw, they lay,
And to their genius facrific'd the day:
Yet the nice gueft's epicurean mind,
(Though breeding made him civil feem and kind)
Defpis'd this country feast; and still his thought
Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (faid he)
Which I'm furpriz'd in these rude parts to fee,
Shews that the gods have given you a mind,
Too noble for the fate, which here you find.
Why should a foul, so virtuous, and fo great,
Lose itself thus in an obfcure retreat?
Let favage beasts lodge in a country den;
You should fee towns, and manners know, and mer
And taste the generous luxury of the court,
Where all the mice of quality refort;
Where thousand beauteous shes about you move,
And, by high fare, are pliant made to love.
ing to a moufe, whofe journey of courfe is perform in the dark, what the being overtaken by night is
We all, ere long, must render up our breath,
No cave or hole can shelter us from death.
Since life is fo uncertain, and so fhort,
Let's fpend it all in feafting and in fport.
Come, worthy fir, come with me, and partake
All the great things, that mortals happy make.
Alas, what virtue hath fufficient arms, T'oppose bright honour, and soft pleasure's charms? What wisdom can their magic force repel? It draws this reverend hermit from his cell. It was the time, when witty poets tell, "That Phoebus into Thetis' bofom fell: "She blush'd at first, and then put out the light, "And drew the modeft curtains of the night." Plainly, the troth to tell, the fun was fet. When to the town our wearied travellers get [g] To a lord's house, as lordly as can be, Made for the use of pride and luxury, They come; the gentle courtier at the door Stops, and will hardly enter in before. But 'tis, fir, your command, and being fo, I'm fworn t' obedience; and fo in they go. Behind a hanging in a spacious room,
(The richest work of Mortclake's noble loom) They wait awhile their wearied limbs to reft, Till filence should invite them to their feast.
[g] our wearied travellers get] He forgot his own idea of a moufe's journey, by night: nay, he forgot that fuch, too, was his author's idea,
"Moenia nocturni fubrepere-"
"About the hour that Cynthia's filver light [b],
"Had touch'd the pale meridies of the night;"
At last the various fupper being done,
It happen'd that the company was gone
Into a room remote, fervants and all,
To please their noble fancies with a ball.
Our hoft leads forth his ftranger, and does find,
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.
Still on the table half-fill'd dishes ftood,
And with delicious bits the floor was ftrew'd.
The courteous mouse presents him with the best,
And both with fat varieties are bleft,
Th' induftrious peafant every where does range,
And thanks the gods for his life's happy change.
Lo! in the midst of a well-freighted pye,
They both at last glutted and wanton lye.
When, see the fad reverfe of profperous fate,
And what fierce ftorms on mortal glories wait!
With hideous noife, down the rude fervants come,
Six dogs before run barking into th' room;
The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright,
And hate the fulness, which retards their flight,
Our trembling peafant wishes now in vain,
That rcoks and mountains cover'd him again.
[b] About the hour that Cynthia's filver light] Thefe two lines on mid-night, and the three, above, on fun-fetting, are a fine ridicule on the prevailing tafte of of poetry at that time, as appears from the introduction,
as witty poets tell--" and therefore, unluckily, on his own tafte, when he wrote, as he too often did, and as the best poets are apt to do, for present fame and reputation.
Oh how the change of his poor life he curft!
This, of all lives (faid he) is fure the worst.
Give me again, ye gods, my cave and wood;
With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.
A Paraphrase upon the 10th Epistle of the First Book of HORACE.
HORACE to FUSCUS ARISTIUS.
HEALTH, from the lover of the country, me,
Health, to the lover of the city, thee;
A difference in our fouls, this only proves,
In all things elfe, we agree like married doves.
But the warm neft and crowded dove-house thou
Doft like; I loosely fly from bough to bough,
And rivers drink, and all the shining day,
Upon fair trees or moffy rocks 1 play;
In fine, I live and reign, when I retire
From all that you equal with heaven admire.
Like one at last from the priest's service fled,
Loathing the honied cakes, I long for bread.
Would I a houfe for happiness erect,
Nature alone fhould be the architect.
She'd build it more convenient, than great,
And doubtlefs in the country choose her feat.
Is there a place, doth better helps fupply,'
Against the wounds of winter's cruelty?
Is there an air, that gentlier does affuage
The mad celeftial dog's, or lion's rage
Is it not there that fleep (and only there)
Nor noife without, nor cares within, does fear?
Does art through pipes a purer water bring,
Than that, which nature ftrains into a spring?
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