Content.
See Discontent.

Let the rich Miser gather golden Gain,
And live the large Possessor of the Plain:
Whom Fears perpetual scare with neighb'ring Foes,
While sounding Trumpets wake his soft Repose.
To me the Fates with sparing Hand dispence,
The humbler Sweets of Ease and Innocence:
Pleas'd with the Joys of a secure Retreat,
While constant Fires supply the chearful Seat.
I nor paternal Wealth, nor Fields require,
Nor Harvests, bounteous to my wealthy Sire:
A small Estate my humble Wish can please,
And a soft Bed to stretch my Limbs at Ease.--

My little Grove, my limpid Stream,
My certain Harvest, render me
More blest, more truly blest, than He
That wears rich Africk's Diadem.--

He that desires but what's enough,
Against the Pow'r of Fate is proof:
Let raging Tempests toss the Floods,
Or Whirlwinds roar among the Woods:
Let patt'ring Hail his Vineyard Spoil,
And render fruitless all his Toil,
Or let his injur'd Trees complain,
Of too much Drought, or too much Rain,
Or let his Field deceive his Hopes,
And Frosts untimely nip his Crops.--

Those Hours the Gods bestow with Thanks employ,
Nor long defer the Bliss Thou may'st enjoy:
For as 'tis Prudence, and not change of Air,
Must render Life a Blessing any where,
Those that beyond Sea go will sadly find,
They change their Climate only, not their Mind.
A busy Idleness destroys our Ease:
We ride, and sail, in Search of inward Peace:
Yet what we seek we ev'ry where may find,
If We can gain but a contented Mind.--

Bless Me from Poverty and Sordidness!
Then be the Gifts of Fortune more, or less,
I'll rest content. To me it matters not,
Whether I'm carry'd in a little Boat,
Or in a Ship.--Since neither driving Gales,
Too swiftly urge me on with swelling Sails,
Nor do rough Waves and Tempests on the Main,
Beat in my Teeth, and force me back again.--
For Strength, Wit, Honour, Virtue, I am plac'd
Short of the Foremost, but before the Last.--

These were my Pray'rs to Heav'n, for These my Vows;
A small Estate, a Fountain near my House,
A Garden, and a little Grove of Trees;
And the good Gods have giv'n me more than These.--
'Tis well: nor other Happiness I wish,
But only that they would continue This.--
Cottage.
See Hospitality.

Here shone no Iv'ry Roofs inlay'd with Gold,
No Marble Floors oppress'd th' illuded Mould:
But banded Sheaves of empty Ceres, laid
On hurdled Boughs, the humble Cov'ring made.
Cheap earthen Bowls in homely Order stood,
And a full Pitcher from the limpid Flood,
With Osier Baskets of a rustic Twine,
And an old Cask still foul with Lees of Wine.
The Walls were stubbled Mud, heap'd up in Haste,
O'er which the Reed and Bulrush droop'd, disgrac'd.
Within the Hut a smoaky Pole was slung,
From Side to Side, cross which it's Treasures hung:
Apples, and wither'd Sav'ry dangled down,
With Grapes dispos'd in many a rural Crown.--
Countenance.

When we are touch'd with some important Ill,
How vainly Silence would our Grief conceal.
Sorrow nor Joy can be disguis'd by Art;
Our Foreheads blab the Secrets of our Heart.--
Country Life.
See Peasant.

Like the first Mortals happy He,
Whose Oxen plow his own paternal Plain:
From Hurry and Fatigue of Bus'ness free,
And quite a Stranger to usurious Gain.
Him, nor the rattling Trumpet calls to War,
Nor does the roaring Ocean scare:
The Bar he shuns: nor meanly stoops to wait
At the proud Levees of the lordly Great.
Or, his Amusement is to twine
Round the tall Poplar the embracing Vine:
Or, useless Branches cutting clear away,
He grafts a better Kind than they.
Or, climbing up some hilly Steep,
Thro' the long Vales his lowing Herds he sees:
Or, presses into Jars the Labour of his Bees;
Or, sheers his over--burden'd Sheep.
Or else, when Autumn crown'd with golden Ears,
And full ripe Apples, rears her graceful Head:
Delighted much he plucks the grafted Pears,
And lushious Grapes that with Purple overspread
Beneath some ancient Oak he likes to lie,
Or on the Turf enjoys the open Sky:
While the deep River gently glides along,
The Groves ring round the Birds melodious Song,
The limpid Brooks roll on their thrilling Streams,
Inviting soft Repose and pleasing Dreams.
But when the Blasts of Winter blow,
And gentle Show'rs are turn'd to Snow,
With Dogs, the Boar, a furious Prey,
He drives to Toils that stop the Way;
Or, slily, spreads around the Bush,
His Nets to catch the greedy Thrush:
Or fearful Hares, or dainty Cranes,
In Gins ensnar'd, reward his Pains.
While thus amus'd what Lover must not lose
The sad Remembrance of his Cares and Woes?
But if a chaste, good--natur'd Wife,
Divides with him the Cares of Life,
With constant Diligence does oversee
His hopeful Children and his Family:
(Like some old Sabine, or Apulian Dame,
Sun--burnt, and swarthy, but of honest Fame.)
A chearful Fire she gets, against he come,
Weary with Sport, or Labour, home:
The Flock she folds, and milks the Kine;
With unbought Dainties spreads the Board:
With what the Fields and Yard afford,
And from the Hogshead draws the racy Wine.
Amidst these Feasts how pleasant to behold
The full fed Flocks home hasting to the Fold:
Whilst loud the weary Oxen low,
And slow along the Ground trails the inverted Plow!
Their Labour done, to see the Swains carouse,
While Mirth, and Jokes, and Laughter shake the House.--

There's none can live so innocent and free,
Or follow Nature's Laws, so close, as he,
Who, far from Cities, does securely dwell,
Fond of the Country, in some humble Cell.
Whose happy Life is thus obscurely spent,
No wretched Avarice can e'er torment:
No Praise he covets, from the giddy Throng,
Who to the Good are seldom constant long:
Destructive Envy ne'er comes near his Gate,
Nor the frail Favour of th' unsteady Great.
No Courts he follows, nor, a royal Slave,
Seeks he vain Titles, or does Riches crave.
Exempt from ev'ry Hope and ev'ry Fear,
Scarce, even Malice, can assault him here.
Black Crimes in Cities bred he does not know,
Nor when the People rage,--
Does his clear Conscience dread the threat'ned Blow.

Would You a House for Happiness erect,
Let Nature be herself the Architect:
She'll build it more convenient than great,
And doubtless in the Country chuse her Seat.
What other Place can better Helps supply,
Against the Force of Winter's Cruelty?
Where does a more refreshing Air asswage,
The Dog--Star's Fury, or the Lion's Rage?
Or where, ah where, but here, can Sleep maintain
Devoid of Care, her soft imperial Reign?
Is Lybian Marble press'd beneath thy Feet,
More beautiful than Flow'rs, or half so sweet?
Or Water roaring thro' the bursting Lead,
So pure, as murm'ring in it's native Bed?
Who builds in Cities yet the Fields approves,
And hedges in with Pillars awkard Groves:
Strives for the Country View that farthest runs,
And tweers aloof at Beauties which he shuns.
In driving Nature out our Force is vain,
Still the recoiling Goddess comes again:
And creeps in silent Triumph, to deride
The weak Attempts of Luxury and Pride.--

Ah wisely now, and willingly retire!
Forsake the gaudy Tinsel of the Great:
The peaceful Cottage beckens a Retreat;
Where true Content a solid Comfort brings,
To Kings unknown, or Favourites of Kings.--
Courtship.
See Complaisance. Flattery.

An Elm was near, to whose Embraces led,
A curling Vine her swelling Clusters spread:
He view'd their twining Branches with Delight,
And prais'd the Beauty of the pleasing Sight.
Yet this tall Elm, but for this Vine, he said,
Had stood neglected, and a barren Shade:
And this fair Vine, but that her Arms surround
Her marry'd Elm, had crept along the Ground.
But no Example thy hard Heart can move,
Still, still averse to all the Joys of Love.--

Bright Youth, she cries, whom all thy Features prove
A God: and if a God, the God of Love:
But if a Mortal, blest thy Nurse's Breast,
Thy Father, Mother, Brother, Sister blest:
But, oh how blest! how more than blest thy Bride!
Ally'd in Bliss, if any yet ally'd.
If so, let mine the stol'n Enjoyment be:
If not, behold a willing Bride in me.--

Too much the Youth does in his Beauty trust,
Who thinks the Fair, will speak her Passion first:
With humble Pray'rs his Suit the Man should move:
The Maid with Complaisance accept his Love.
Ask, and be happy: freely speak your Mind:
And yield a fair Occasion to be kind.--

You, who in Cupid's Lists inroll your Name,
First, seek an Object worthy of your Flame:
Then strive the charming Fair one's Heart to gain:
Be next your Care, that Love may long remain.--

Firmly believe all Women may be won:
Attempt with Confidence, the Work is done.
The Grashopper shall first forbear to sing
In Summer Season, and the Birds in Spring:
The Hound shall sooner, frighted, turn away
From the weak Hare, its long accustom'd Prey,
Than Woman stand against Man's flatt'ring Skill:
Ev'n she will yield, who swears she never will.--

By Letters, not by Words, your Suit begin:
And ford the doubtful Passage with your Pen.
If to her Heart you'd find the nearest Way,
Extreamly flatter, and extreamly pray.
Priam by Pray'rs did Hector's Body gain,
Nor is an angry God invok'd in vain.--

When to the Play she goes be ever nigh,
And gaze, with Love and Wonder in your Eye.
Admire the Dancer who her Liking gains,
And pity him who acts the Lover's Pains:
Sit while she sits, and when she rises rise,
And for her sake the Loss of Time despise.--

Act well the Lover: let your Speech abound
In dying Words, expressive of your Wound.
Nor doubt You her Belief: She will be mov'd:
The plainest thinks she merits to be lov'd.--

Be first to snatch the Goblet from her Lip,
And where she laid her Lips the Blessing sip:
Whate'er she touches with her Fingers, eat:
And brush her Hand in reaching to the Meat.--

Paleness becomes not those who sail the Sea,
Brown'd by the Sun and Waves they ought to be:
Nor suits it those, who all the Seasons round,
With Ploughs and Harrows turn the stubborn Ground:
Nor You, who seek by Arms to gain Renown,
Can, with pale Looks, become the Victor's Crown:
But if the Lover hopes to be in Grace,
Exceeding wan, and meager be his Face:
Paleness is apt, and decent in his Case.
That Colour from the Fair Compassion draws,
She thinks you sick, and thinks herself the Cause.
Then, tho' in Health, be not asham'd to wear,
And, with thy Night--Cap, hide thy seemly Hair.
If Cares and Woes attending Love should fail,
Sit up whole Nights, and study to be pale.
Unhappy be, in order to be blest,
And let each Look bespeak a Love--sick Breast.--

Beg her, with Tears, your fond Desires to grant;
For Tears will pierce a Heart of Adamant.
If Tears will not be squeez'd, then rub your Eye,
Or wet the Lids, and seem at least to cry.--

Trust not your beauteous Form, but learn to know,
There's more requir'd in Love than empty Show:
Debates avoid, and rude Contention shun,
Mild Love is with submissive Language won.
With tender Vows the charming Maid endear,
And let her only Sighs and Wishes hear.
Contrive with Words and Actions to delight,
And make your self still Welcome in her Sight.--

I no profuse nor costly Gifts commend,
But chuse, and time it well, whate'er You send.
Thro' ev'ry Season of the fruitful Year,
Let your own Boy some rural Present bear:
Tell her 'tis fresh, and from your Manor brought,
Tho' stale, and in the Suburb Market bought.
The first ripe Cluster let the Fair One eat,
And her with Apples, Nuts, and Chesnuts treat.
To her the Thrush, to her the Garland send,
As certain Proofs she's always in your Mind.
By Arts like these the Childless Miser's caught:
Thus future Legacies are basely bought.
But may they meet with Punishment divine,
Who make their Presents with a bad Design!--

In Autumn oft, when the delightful Year
Purples the Grape, and shows the Vintage near,
Fierce Heats, by turns, and chilly Blasts arise,
And bodies languish with inconstant Skies.
Then, if the vitious Air infects her Veins,
And in her tainted Blood some Fever reigns,
Your tender Love, by your Behaviour show,
And if you e'er expect to reap, then sow.
Think nothing nauseous in her loath'd Disease,
But with your ready Hand contrive to please:
Weep in her Sight, more ardent Kisses give,
And let her burning Lips your Tears receive.
Much for her Safety vow, and loudly speak,
That she may hear the lavish Vows you make:
Often pretend to dream that she is well,
And the feign'd Dream to her with Pleasure tell.
Cares thus well tim'd shall stand you in good stead:
And this Way many climb the nuptial Bed.—