Metin
And ne'er embark'd, and ne'er unsheath'd his sword;
But while the Grecians did for glory rove,
He wasted all his idle hours on love.
Our country work and tillage can disarm
Your am'rous cares, for ev'ry grief a charm.The ancients are almost always happy in the description of a country life.
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Yoke oxen, plough the painful field, you'll find
The wounded earth will cure your love-sick mind.
Then trust your grain to the new-furrow'd soil,
That with large int'rest will requite your toll.
Behold what kind returns your fruit-trees send;
180
Down to your hand the burden'd branches bend.
Belold a murmuring brook thro' pastures glide,
Behold the grazing sheep on either side;
While in the shade his pipe the shepherd tries,
The watchfull dog his master's cares supplies;
185
With loud complaints another grove is till'd
Of heifers lowing for their firstlings killd.
What pleasure 'tis with smoke of yew to drive
The mur'ring swarm, and seize the loaden hive.
All seasons friendly to the swain are found;
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