'Tis peace that makes a happy life;[13] And that is mine through my sweet wife; Beginning of my soul and end, I've gain'd new being from this friend,-- She fills each thought, and each desire, Up to the height I would aspire. This bliss is never found by ranging; Regret still springs from saddest changing; Such loves and their beguiling pleasures, Are falser still than magic treasures, Which gleam at eve with golden colour, And change to ashes ere the morrow. But now each good that I possess, Rooted in truth and faithfulness, Imparts delight to every sense; For erst they were a mere pretence, And long before enjoy'd they were, They changed their smiles to grizly care. Now pleasures please--love being single-- Evils with its delights ne'er mingle. My bed's become a place of rest, Two souls repose on one soft breast; And still in peace my simple board Is spread, and tranquil feasts afford. Before, to eat I scarce was able, Some harpy hover'd o'er my table, Spoiling each dish when I would dine, And mingling gall with gladsome wine Now the content that foolish I Still miss'll in my philosophy. My wife with tender smiles bestows, And makes me triumph o'er my woes; While with her finger she effaces Of my past folly all the traces, And graving pleasant thoughts instead, Bids me rejoice that I am wed. * * * * 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 t' philosophise, 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 Phœbus as a shepherd boy Wander'd once among the clover, Of some fair shepherdess the lover; And Venus wept in rustic bower, Adonis turn'd to purple flower; And Bacchus midst the mountains derar, Forgot the pangs of jealous fear; And nymphs that in the waters play, ('Tis thus that ancient fables say), And dryads fair among the trees, Fain the sprightly fawns 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 saunt'ring walk, To some near murm'ring rivulet; Where 'neath a shady beech we sit, Hand clasp'd in hand, and side by side, With some sweet kisses too beside, Contending there, in combat kind, Which best can love with constant mind. As the stream flows among the grass, Thus life's clear stream with us does pass: We take no count of day nor night.