‘How blest art thou, canst love the country, Wroth, Whether by choice, or fate, or both! And though so near the city and the court, Art ta’en with neither’s vice nor sport: That at great times, art no ambitious guest Of sheriff’s dinner, or of mayor’s feast. Nor com’st to view the better cloth of state; The richer hangings, or the crown-plate; Nor throng’st (when masquing is) to have a sight Of the short bravery of the night; To view the jewels, stuffs, the pains, the wit There wasted, some not paid for yet! But canst at home in thy securer rest, Live with un-bought provision blest; Free from proud porches or their guilded roofs, ‘Mongst lowing herds and solid hoofs: Along the curled woods and painted meads, Through which a serpent river leads To some cool courteous shade, which he calls his, And makes sleep softer than it is! Or if thou list the night in watch to break, A-bed canst hear the loud stag speak, In spring oft roused for their master’s sport, Who for it makes thy house his court; Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year, Divid’st upon the lesser deer; In autumn, at the partrich mak’st a flight, And giv’st thy gladder guests the sight; And in the winter hunt’st the flying hare, More for thy exercise than fare; While all that follows, their glad ears apply To the full greatness of the cry: Or hawking at the river or the bush, Or shooting at the greedy thrush, Thou dost with some delight the day out-wear, Although the coldest of the year! The whil’st the several seasons thou hast seen Of flow’ry fields, of copses green, The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep, And feasts that either shearers keep; The ripened ears yet humble in their height, And furrows laden with their weight; The apple-harvest that doth longer last; The hogs return’d home fat from mast; The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made A fire now, that lent a shade! Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites, Comus puts in for new delights; And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer, As if in Saturn’s reign it were; Apollo’s harp and Hermes’ lyre resound, Nor are the Muses strangers found: The rout of rural folk come thronging in, (Their rudeness then is thought no sin) Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace; And the great heroes of her race Sit mixt with loss of state or reverence. Freedom doth with degree dispense. The jolly wassail walks the often round, And in their cups their cares are drown’d: