Beside the trunk that Vulcan's flame dissolves, Of sturdy oak, he seeks himself to warm, Amidst the might of winter's bristling cold, And there in peace a clear account resolves To give of life to Heaven, and how from harm To keep his flock, he doth discussion hold. And when away hath rolled The hard and barren frost, when it doth shrink, When he who had his birth In Delos, doth the earth And air inflame, then, on some river's brink, Of willows green and elms its canopy, In rustic harmony He sounds the shrilly fife, or lifts his voice: Then truly one doth see The waters stop to listen and rejoice, He is not wearied by the solemn face Of one in favour, who doth bear the port Of governor, where he is not obeyed, Nor by the sweetly uttered lofty praise Of the false flatterer, who in absence short, Views, leaders, parties, changeth undismayed. Of the disdain displayed By the wise secretary, of his pride Who bears the golden key, But little recketh he, Nor of the league of divers chiefs allied. Not for a moment from his flock he goes, Because the angry blows Of frenzied Mars on either side may sound, Who doth such skill disclose That e'en his followers scarce have profit found. Within a circle small his footsteps wend From the high mountain to the peaceful plain, To the clear river from the fountain cold. Nor doth he plough, in madness without end, The heaving meadows of the ocean main, Desiring distant countries to behold. It doth not make him bold To learn that close beside his village lives The great unconquered king, Whose weal is everything, Yet not to see him small displeasure gives. No ambitious busy-body he, beside Himself, who without pride Runs after favour, and a favourite's power, Though never hath he dyed His sword or lance in blood of Turk or Moor.