* * * * *

     And thus, by moderation bounded,
     I live by my own goods surrounded,
     Among my friends, my table spread
     With viands we may eat nor dread;
     And at my side my sweetest wife,
     Whose gentleness admits no strife,—­

     Except of jealousy the fear,
     Whose soft reproaches more endear;
     Our darling children round us gather,—­
     Children who will make me grandfather. 
     And thus we pass in town our days,
     Till the confinement something weighs;
     Then to our village haunt we fly,
     Taking some pleasant company,—­
     While those we love not never come
     Anear our rustic, leafy home.

     For better ’tis to philosophize,
     And learn a lesson truly wise
     From lowing herd and bleating flock,
     Than from some men of vulgar stock;
     And rustics, as they hold the plough,
     May often good advice bestow. 
     Of love, too, we may have the joy: 
     For Phoebus as a shepherd-boy
     Wandered once among the clover,
     Of some fair shepherdess the lover;
     And Venus wept, in rustic bower,
     Adonis turned to purple flower. 
     And Bacchus ’midst the mountains drear
     Forgot the pangs of jealous fear;

     And nymphs that in the water play
     (’Tis thus that ancient fables say),
     And Dryads fair among the trees,
     Fain the sprightly Fauns would please. 
     So in their footsteps follow we,—­
     My wife and I,—­as fond and free,
     Love in our thoughts and in our talk;
     Direct we slow our sauntering walk
     To some near murmuring rivulet,
     Where ’neath a shady beech we sit,
     Hand clasped in hand, and side by side,—­
     With some sweet kisses, too, beside,—­
     Contending there, in combat kind,
     Which best can love with constant mind.

* * * * *

     Thus our village life we live,
     And day by day such joys receive;
     Till, to change the homely scene,
     Lest it pall while too serene,
     To the gay city we remove,
     Where other things there are to love;
     And graced by novelty, we find
     The city’s concourse to our mind;
     While our new coming gives a joy
     Which ever staying might destroy. 
     We spare all tedious compliment;
     Yet courtesy with kind intent,
     Which savage tongues alone abuse,
     Will often the same language use.

* * * * *

     And Monleon, our dearest guest,
     Will raise our mirth by many a jest;
     For while his laughter rings again,
     Can we to echo it refrain? 
     And other merriment is ours,
     To gild with joy the lightsome hours. 
     But all too trivial would it look,