HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite;
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

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:

Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

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.

Phineas Fletcher. TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon:
Stay, stay,

Until the hast'ning day
Has run

But to the even-song;
And having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along!

We have short time to stay as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

Sweet country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But, serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plough'd the ocean's foam,
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the eastern Ind dost rove,
To bring from thence the scorched clove;
Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the west.
No; thy ambition's master-piece
Llies no thought higher than a fleece;