CHAP. XXI.] 



THE FIFTH DAT. 315 



Fly, from our country pastimes, fly, 

 Sad troops of human misery. 



Come, serene looks, 



Clear as the crystal brooks, 

 Or the pure azur'd heaven, that smiles to see 

 The rich attendance of our poverty : 



Peace and a secure mind, 



Which all men seek, we only find. 



Abused mortals, did you know 



Where joy, heart's-ease, and comforts grow, 



You'd scorn proud towers, 



And seek them in these bowers ; 



Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may shake, 

 But blust'ring care could never tempest make ; 



Nor murmurs ere come nigh us, 



Saving of fountains that glide by us. 



Here's no fantastic masque, nor dance, 

 But of our kids that frisk and prance ; 



Nor wars are seen, 



Unless upon the green 



Two harmless lambs are butting one the other, 

 Which done, both bleating run each to his mother : 



And wounds are never found, 



Save what the ploughshare gives the ground. 



Here are no entrapping baits 

 To hasten too, too hasty fates, 



Unless it be 



The fond credulity 



Of silly fish, which, worldling like, still look 

 Upon the bait, but never on the hook : 



Nor envy, 'less among 



The birds, for prize of their sweet song. 



Go, let the diving negro seek 



For gems hid in some forlorn creek : 



We all pearls scorn, 



Save what the dewy morn 

 Congeals upon each little spire of grass, 

 Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass : 



And gold ne'er here appears, 



Save what the yellow Ceres bears. 



Blest silent groves ! Oh may you be 

 For ever mirth's best nursery ! 



May pure contents 



For ever pitch their tents 



