change. Lo, in the midst of a well-freighted pie They both at last glutted and wanton lie, When see the sad reverse of prosperous fate, And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait! With hideous noise, down the rude servants come, Six dogs before run barking into th’ room; The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright, And hate the fulness which retards their flight. Our trembling peasant wishes now in vain. That rocks and mountains covered him again. Oh, how the change of his poor life, he cursed! “This, of all lives,” said he, “is sure the worst. Give me again, ye gods, my cave and wood; With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.”

At

HORACE TO FUSCUS ARISTIUS.

A Paraphrase upon the Eightieth Epistle of the First Book of Horace.

Health, from the lover of the country, me, Health, to the lover of the city, thee, A difference in our souls, this only proves, In all things else, we agree like married doves. But the warm nest and crowded dove house thou Dost like; I loosely fly from bough to bough; And rivers drink, and all the shining day, Upon fair trees or mossy rocks I play; In fine, I live and reign when I retire From all that you equal with heaven admire. Like one at last from the priest’s service fled, Loathing the honied cakes, I long for bread. Would I a house for happiness erect, Nature alone should be the architect. She’d build it more convenient than great, And doubtless in the country choose her seat. Is there a place doth better helps supply Against the wounds of winter’s cruelty? Is there an air that gentler does assuage The mad celestial dog’s or lion’s rage? Is it not there that sleep (and only there) Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear? Does art through pipes a purer water bring Than that which nature strains into a spring? Can all your tapestries, or your pictures, show More beauties than in herbs and flowers do grow? Fountains and trees our wearied pride do please, Even in the midst of gilded palaces. And in your towns that prospect gives delight Which opens round the country to our sight. Men to the good, from which they rashly fly, Return at last, and their wild luxury Does but in vain with those true joys contend Which nature did to mankind recommend. The man who changes gold for burnished brass, Or small right gems for larger ones of glass, Is not, at length, more certain to be made Ridiculous and wretched by the trade, Than he who sells a solid good to buy The painted goods of pride and vanity. If thou be wise, no glorious fortune choose, Which ’t is but pain to keep, yet grief to lose. For when we place even trifles in the heart, With trifles too unwillingly we part. 

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