Cowley's Essays [21]
he Stores up the golden treasures of the bee. He sees his lowing herds walk o'er the plain, Whilst neighbouring hills low back to them again. And when the season, rich as well as gay, All her autumnal bounty does display, How is he pleas'd th' increasing use to see Of his well trusted labours bend the tree; Of which large shares, on the glad sacred days, He gives to friends, and to the gods repays. With how much joy does he, beneath some shade By aged trees, reverend embraces made, His careless head on the fresh green recline, His head uncharged with fear or with design. By him a river constantly complains, The birds above rejoice with various strains, And in the solemn scene their orgies keep Like dreams mixed with the gravity of sleep, Sleep which does always there for entrance wait, And nought within against it shuts the gate. Nor does the roughest season of the sky, Or sullen Jove, all sports to him deny. He runs the mazes of the nimble hare, His well-mouthed dogs' glad concert rends the air, Or with game bolder, and rewarded more, He drives into a toil the foaming boar; Here flies the hawk to assault, and there the net To intercept the travelling fowl is set; And all his malice, all his craft is shown In innocent wars, on beasts and birds alone. This is the life from all misfortune free, From thee, the great one, tyrant love, from thee; And if a chaste and clean though homely wife, Be added to the blessings of this life, - Such as the ancient sun-burnt Sabines were, Such as Apulia, frugal still, does bear, - Who makes her children and the house her care And joyfully the work of life does share; Nor thinks herself too noble or too fine To pin the sheepfold or to milk the kine; Who waits at door against her husband come From rural duties, late, and wearied home, Where she receives him with a kind embrace, A cheerful fire, and a more cheerful face: And fills the bowl up to her homely lord, And with domestic plenty load the board. Not all the lustful shell-fish of the sea, Dressed by the wanton hand of luxury, Nor ortolans nor godwits nor the rest Of costly names that glorify a feast, Are at the princely tables better cheer Than lamb and kid, lettuce and olives, here.
THE COUNTRY MOUSE. A Paraphrase upon Horace, II Book, Satire vi.
At the large foot of a fair hollow tree, Close to ploughed ground, seated commodiously, His ancient and hereditary house, There dwelt a good substantial country mouse: Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main, Yet one who once did nobly entertain A city mouse, well coated, sleek, and gay, A mouse of high degree, which lost his way, Wantonly walking forth to take the air, And arrived early, and alighted there, For a day's lodging. The good hearty host (The ancient plenty of his hall to boast) Did all the stores produce that might excite, With various tastes, the courtier's appetite. Fitches and beans, peason, and oats, and wheat, And a large chestnut, the delicious meat Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would eat. And for a haut goust there was mixed with these The swerd of bacon, and the coat of cheese, The precious relics, which at harvest he Had gathered from the reapers' luxury. "Freely," said he, "fall on, and never spare, The bounteous gods will for to-morrow care." And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay, And to their genius sacrificed the day. Yet the nice guest's epicurean mind (Though breeding made him civil seem, and kind) Despised this country feast, and still his thought Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought. "Your bounty and civility," said he, "Which I'm surprised in these rude parts to see, Show that the gods have given you a mind Too noble for the fate which here you find. Why should a soul, so virtuous and so great, Lose itself thus in an obscure retreat? Let savage beasts lodge in a country den, You should see towns, and manners know, and men; And taste the generous luxury of the court, Where all the mice of quality resort; Where thousand beauteous shes about you move, And by high fare are pliant made to love. We all ere long must render up our breath,
THE COUNTRY MOUSE. A Paraphrase upon Horace, II Book, Satire vi.
At the large foot of a fair hollow tree, Close to ploughed ground, seated commodiously, His ancient and hereditary house, There dwelt a good substantial country mouse: Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main, Yet one who once did nobly entertain A city mouse, well coated, sleek, and gay, A mouse of high degree, which lost his way, Wantonly walking forth to take the air, And arrived early, and alighted there, For a day's lodging. The good hearty host (The ancient plenty of his hall to boast) Did all the stores produce that might excite, With various tastes, the courtier's appetite. Fitches and beans, peason, and oats, and wheat, And a large chestnut, the delicious meat Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would eat. And for a haut goust there was mixed with these The swerd of bacon, and the coat of cheese, The precious relics, which at harvest he Had gathered from the reapers' luxury. "Freely," said he, "fall on, and never spare, The bounteous gods will for to-morrow care." And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay, And to their genius sacrificed the day. Yet the nice guest's epicurean mind (Though breeding made him civil seem, and kind) Despised this country feast, and still his thought Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought. "Your bounty and civility," said he, "Which I'm surprised in these rude parts to see, Show that the gods have given you a mind Too noble for the fate which here you find. Why should a soul, so virtuous and so great, Lose itself thus in an obscure retreat? Let savage beasts lodge in a country den, You should see towns, and manners know, and men; And taste the generous luxury of the court, Where all the mice of quality resort; Where thousand beauteous shes about you move, And by high fare are pliant made to love. We all ere long must render up our breath,