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'st 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 masterpiece Flies no thought higher than a fleece ; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year : But walk'st about thine own dear bounds, Not envying others larger grounds : 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 forth the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which though well soyl'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 see'st a present God-like power Imprinted in each herb and flower ; And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine, Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat Unto the dew-laps 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 a hill. For sports, for pageantry and plays Thou hast thy eves, and holidays ; On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet ; Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crown'd. Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd ; Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale, Thy shearing feast which never fail ; Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl, That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole ; Thy mummeries, thy twelfth-tide kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings, Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it. To these thou hast thy times to go And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow ; Thy witty wiles to draw, and get The lark into the trammel net ; Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade To take the precious pheasant made ; Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls 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. Cætera desunt — Soyl'd, manured. Compost, preparation. Fox i' th' hole, a hopping game in which boys beat each other with gloves. Cockrood, a run for snaring woodcocks. Glade, an opening in the wood across which nets were hung to catch game.   (Willoughby, Ornithologie, i. 3.)

William Dobson. Endymion Porter. c.1643. * “The friend and patron of poets    and artists, Porter was a protégé    of Charles I's favourite, the Duke    of Buckingham. He was instru-    mental in bringing Van Dyck to    England and the King admired    him 'for his general learning,    brave stile, sweet temper, great    experience, travels and modern    languages'.” —National Portrait Gallery.

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