Thrice, and above, blest, my soul's half, art thou, In thy both last and better vow; Could'st leave the city, for exchange, to see The country's sweet simplicity; And it to know and practise, with intent To grow the sooner innocent; By studying to know virtue, and to aim More at her nature than her name; The last is but the least; the first doth tell Ways less to live, than to live well:-- And both are known to thee, who now canst live Led by thy conscience, to give Justice to soon-pleased nature, and to show Wisdom and she together go, And keep one centre; This with that conspires To teach man to confine desires, And know that riches have their proper stint In the contented mind, not mint; And canst instruct that those who have the itch Of craving more, are never rich. These things thou knows't to th' height, and dost prevent That plague, because thou art content With that Heaven gave thee with a wary hand, (More blessed in thy brass than land) To keep cheap Nature even and upright; To cool, not cocker appetite. Thus thou canst tersely live to satisfy The belly chiefly, not the eye; Keeping the barking stomach wisely quiet, Less with a neat than needful diet. But that which most makes sweet thy country life, Is the fruition of a wife, Whom, stars consenting with thy fate, thou hast Got not so beautiful as chaste; By whose warm side thou dost securely sleep, While Love the sentinel doth keep, With those deeds done by day, which ne'er affright Thy silken slumbers in the night: Nor has the darkness power to usher in Fear to those sheets that know no sin. The damask'd meadows and the pebbly streams Sweeten and make soft your dreams: The purling springs, groves, birds, and well weaved bowers, With fields enamelled with flowers, Present their shapes, while fantasy discloses Millions of Lilies mix'd with Roses. Then dream, ye hear the lamb by many a bleat Woo'd to come suck the milky teat; While Faunus in the vision comes, to keep From rav'ning wolves the fleecy sheep: With thousand such enchanting dreams, that meet To make sleep not so sound as sweet; Nor can these figures so thy rest endear, As not to rise when Chanticlere Warns the last watch;--but with the dawn dost rise To work, but first to sacrifice; Making thy peace with Heaven for some late fault, With holy-meal and spirting salt; Which done, thy painful thumb this sentence tells us, 'Jove for our labour all things sells us.' Nor are thy daily and devout affairs Attended with those desp'rate cares Th' industrious merchant has, who for to find Gold, runneth to the Western Ind, And back again, tortured with fears, doth fly, Untaught to suffer Poverty;--