THE GENTLEMAN FARMER. Pause then, And weigh thy value with an even hand; If thou beest rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough. SHAKESPEARE, Merchant of Venice. Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none: and the fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor. Much Ado about Nothing. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. Macbeth. His promises are, as he then was, mighty; And his performance, as he now is, nothing. Henry VIII. ------------------- Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all, Who dwelt around, "the Gentleman" would call; Whether in pure humility or pride, They only knew, and they would not decide. Far different he from that dull plodding tribe Whom it was his amusement to describe; Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod, But treading still as their dull fathers trod; Who lived in times when not a man had seen Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine! He was of those whose skill assigns the prize For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties; And who, in places where improvers meet, To fill the land with fatness, had a seat; Who in large mansions live like petty kings, And speak of farms but as amusing things; Who plans encourage, and who journals keep, And talk with lords about a breed of sheep. Two are the species in this genus known; One, who is rich in his profession grown, Who yearly finds his ample stores increase, From fortune's favours and a favouring lease; Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns; Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns; Who freely lives, and loves to show he can, - This is the Farmer made the Gentleman. The second species from the world is sent, Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content; In books and men beyond the former read To farming solely by a passion led, Or by a fashion; curious in his land; Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd; Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd, And ever certain to succeed the next; Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade, - This is the Gentleman, a farmer made. Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew Early in life, his reasons known to few; Some disappointments said, some pure good sense, The love of land, the press of indolence; His fortune known, and coming to retire, If not a Farmer, men had call'd him 'Squire. Forty and five his years, no child or wife Cross'd the still tenour of his chosen life; Much land he purchased, planted far around, And let some portions of superfluous ground To farmers near him, not displeased to say "My tenants," nor "our worthy landlord," they. Fix'd in his farm, he soon display'd his skill In small-boned lambs, the horse-hoe, and the drill; From these he rose to themes of nobler kind, And show'd the riches of a fertile mind;