11 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise: May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence Fat frankincense. Let balm and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument. 12 May no wolf howl or screech-owl stir A wing upon thy sepulchre! No boisterous winds or storms To starve or wither Thy soft, sweet earth! but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing. 13 May all thy maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers: May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male-incense burn Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. THE COUNTRY LIFE. Sweet country life, to such unknown Whose lives are others', not their own! But serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee! Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam To seek and bring rough pepper home; Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove, To bring from thence the scorched clove: Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the West. No: thy ambition's masterpiece Flies no thought higher than a fleece; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year; But walk'st about thy own dear bounds, Not envying others' larger grounds: For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent Of land makes life, but sweet content. When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, Calls forth the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which though well-soil'd, yet thou dost know That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands. There at the plough thou find'st thy team, With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up by singing how The kingdom's portion is the plough. This done, then to th' enamell'd meads, Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads, Thou seest a present godlike power Imprinted in each herb and flower; And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine, Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat Unto the dewlaps up in meat; And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near, To make a pleasing pastime there. These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox; And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool; And leav'st them as they feed and fill; A shepherd piping on a hill. For sports, for pageantry, and plays, Thou hast thy eves and holidays; On which the young men and maids meet, To exercise their dancing feet; Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crown'd. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast; Thy May-poles too, with garlands graced; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy shearing feast, which never fail; Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, That's toss'd up after fox i' the hole; Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings; Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit; And no man pays too dear for it.