62 A Dialogue between 



See yoncT stout Mullock with his neck new worn, 

 Whose fellows plow the ground for plentious Corn, 

 Which Ceres, as a mighty blessing, sends, 

 She hath my Love; to Pan my offering heads, 

 Father of Shepherds, we thy Rusticks are 

 As well as Flocks, thy everlasting care; 

 In rural numbers we thy praise rehearse, 

 And pay our Obligations in Immortal verse; 

 No fluent strains but such as Nature gave, 

 Plain as our Souls, but always just and brave. 

 When Amarillis, PhilUs, Claris joyn 

 And make consorting Harmony Divine. 



No knowledge in the Husbandmans affairs, 

 Belong unto my Art, nor all his Teeming cares 

 Know I, nor please my self to see the Oxen Plow, 

 And labouring thro' the new made furrows go. 

 The painful Harrow gives me no delight, 

 Nor can I comprehend how one short night, 

 Can give due rest, or yield a sweet repose 

 To toylsome swains, that with the Sun still goes, 

 From one care to another, Reapers always sweat, 

 And Ceres bounty yields them labours, yet 

 Full Barns are thresh'd, the winnow' d wheat appears, 

 Which gives both Joy and Trouble to succeeding 



years, 



If my advise in Friendly manner, can obtain 

 But your attention, while my observations plain 

 How you some hours of tedious life may ease, 

 Controul your cares and sweetly rest iu peace. 



Thy 



