The horned deer, by nature arm'd so well,
Did with the horse in common pasture dwell;
And, when they fought, the field it always wan,
Till the ambitious horse begg'd help of man,
And took the bridle, and thenceforth did reign
Bravely alone, as lord of all the plain;
But never after could the rider get

From off his back, or from his mouth the bit.
So they, who poverty too much do fear,
T'avoid that weight, a greater burden bear;
That they might power above their equals have,
To cruel masters they themselves enslave.
For gold, their liberty exchang'd we see,
That fairest flower, which crowns humanity.
And all this mischief does upon them light,
Only because they know not how, aright,
That great, but secret, happiness to prize,
That's laid up in a little, for the wise:
That is the best and easiest estate,
Which to a man sits close, but not too strait;
'Tis like a shoe; it pinches, and it burns,
Too narrow; and too large, it overturns.
My dearest friend, stop thy desires at last,
And chearfully enjoy the wealth thou hast.
And, if me still seeking for more you see,
Chide, and reproach, despise and laugh at me.
Money was made, not to command our will,
But all our lawful pleasures to fulfil.

Shame and woe to us, if we our wealth obey;
The horse doth with the horseman run away.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

LIB. IV. PLANTARUM.

LEST be the man (and blest he is) whom e'er
(Plac'd far out of the roads of hope or fear)
A little field, and little garden, feeds:
The field gives all that frugal nature needs;
The wealthy garden liberally bestows
All she can ask, when she luxurious grows.
The specious inconveniences, that wait
Upon a life of business, and of state,

He sees (nor does the sight disturb his rest)
By fools desir'd, by wicked men possest.

Thus, thus (and this deserv'd great Virgil's praise)
The old Corycian yeoman pass'd his days;
Thus his wise life Abdolonymus spent:

Th' ambassadors, which the great emperor sent
To offer him a crown, with wonder found
The reverend gard'ner hoeing of his ground;
Unwillingly and slow and discontent,

From his lov'd cottage, to a throne he went.
And oft he stopt in his triumphant way,
And oft look'd back, and oft was heard to say,
Not without sighs, Alas, I there forsake

A happier kingdom than I go to take!

Thus Aglaüs (a man unknown to men,

But the gods knew, and therefore lov'd him then,)
Thus liv'd obscurely then without a name,
Aglaüs, now consign'd t'eternal fame.

For Gyges, the rich king, wicked and great,
Presum'd, at wise Apollo's Delphic seat

Presum'd, to ask, Oh thou, the whole world's eye,
See'st thou a man, that happier is than I?

The god, who scorn'd to flatter men, reply'd,
Aglaüs happier is. But Gyges cry'd,
In a proud rage, who can that Aglaüs be?
We have heard, as yet, of no such king as he.
And true it was, through the whole earth around
No king of such a name was to be found.
Is some old hero of that name alive,

Who his high race does from the gods derive?
Is it some mighty general, that has done
Wonders in fight, and god-like honours won?
Is it some man of endless wealth, said he?
None, none of these. Who can this Aglaüs be?
After long search, and vain inquiries past,
In an obscure Arcadian vale at last,
(Th' Arcadian life has always shady been)
Near Sopho's town (which he but once had seen)
This Aglaüs, who monarchs' envy drew,
Whose happiness the gods stood witness to,
This mighty Aglaüs was labouring found,
With his own hands, in his own little ground.
So, gracious God, (if it may lawful be,
Among those foolish gods to mention thee)
So let me act, on such a private stage,
The last dull scenes of my declining age;
After long toils and voyages in vain,
This quiet port, let my tost vessel gain;
Of heavenly rest, this earnest to me lend,
Let my life sleep, and learn to love her end.

V.

THE GARDEN.

TO J. EVELYN, ESQ.'

NEVER had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I might be master at last of a small house and large garden,2 with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life only to the culture of them, and study of nature;

And there (with no design beyond my wall) whole and intire to lie,

In no unactive ease, and no unglorious poverty.

1 John Evelyn, now most known as the author of the "Diary," but in Cowley's time more celebrated as the writer of "Sylva, or a Discourse on Forest Trees;" to him, therefore, this essay is very fitly inscribed.

2 So also Swift,

I've often wished that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A terrace at my garden's end.

F

Or, as Virgil has said, shorter and better for me, that I might there

"Studiis florere ignobilis otî;"3

(though I could wish that he had rather said, "Nobilis otî," when he spoke of his own.) But several accidents of my ill fortune have disappointed me hitherto, and do still, of that felicity; for though I have made the first and hardest step to it, by abandoning all ambitions and hopes in this world, and by retiring from the noise of all business and almost company, yet I stick still in the inn of a hired house and garden, among weeds and rubbish and without that pleasantest work of human industry, the improvement of something which we call (not very properly, but yet we call) our own. I am gone out from Sodom, but I am not yet arrived at my little Zoar. O let me escape thither (is it not a little one?) and my soul shall live. I do not look back yet; but I have been forced to stop, and make too many halts. You may wonder, Sir, (for this seems a little too extravagant and pindarical for prose) what I mean by all this preface; it is to let you know, that though I have missed, like a chemist, my great end, yet I account my affections and endeavours well rewarded by something that I have met with by the bye; which is, that they have procured to me some part in your kindness and esteem; and thereby the honour of having my name so advantageously recommended to posterity, by the epistle you are pleased to prefix to the most useful book that has been written in that kind, and which is to last as long as months and years.1

3 Virgil, Georg. iv. 564. Cowley gives the sense in the two lines above.

Evelyn had dedicated to Cowley his "Kalendarium Hor