106. A Country-Life: To His Brother, Mr. Tho. Herrick

Thrice, and above, bless'd, my soul's half, art thouIn thy both last and better vow:Could'st leave the city, for exchange, to seeThe country's sweet simplicity:And it to know and practise, with intentTo grow the sooner innocentBy studying to know virtue, and to aimMore at her nature than her name.The last is but the least; the first doth tellWays less to live than to live well:And both are known to thee, who now can'st liveLed by thy conscience; to giveJustice to soon-pleased nature; and to showWisdom and she together goAnd keep one centre: this with that conspiresTo teach man to confine desiresAnd know that riches have their proper stintIn the contented mind, not mint:And can'st instruct that those who have the itchOf craving more are never rich.These things thou know'st to th' height, and dost preventThat plague; because thou art contentWith that heav'n gave thee with a wary hand,More blessed in thy brass than land,To keep cheap nature even and upright;To cool, not cocker appetite.Thus thou canst tersely live to satisfyThe belly chiefly, not the eye;Keeping the barking stomach wisely quiet,Less with a neat than needful diet.But that which most makes sweet thy country lifeIs the fruition of a wife:Whom, stars consenting with thy fate, thou hastGot not so beautiful as chaste:By whose warm side thou dost securely sleep,While love the sentinel doth keep,With those deeds done by day, which ne'er affrightThy silken slumbers in the night.Nor has the darkness power to usher inFear to those sheets that know no sin;But still thy wife, by chaste intentions led,Gives thee each night a maidenhead.The damask'd meadows and the pebbly streamsSweeten and make soft your dreams:The purling springs, groves, birds, and well-weav'd bowers,With fields enamelled with flowers,Present their shapes; while fantasy disclosesMillions of lilies mix'd with roses.Then dream ye hear the lamb by many a bleatWoo'd to come suck the milky teat:While Faunus in the vision comes to keepFrom rav'ning wolves the fleecy sheep.With thousand such enchanting dreams, that meetTo make sleep not so sound as sweet:Nor can these figures so thy rest endearAs not to rise when ChanticlereWarns the last watch; but with the dawn dost riseTo work, but first to sacrifice;Making thy peace with heav'n, for some late fault,With holy-meal and spirting-salt.Which done, thy painful thumb this sentence tells us,Jove for our labour all things sells us.Nor are thy daily and devout affairsAttended with those desp'rate caresTh' industrious merchant has; who, for to findGold, runneth to the Western Inde,And back again, tortured with fears, doth fly,Untaught to suffer poverty.But thou at home, bless'd with securest ease,Sitt'st, and believ'st that there be seasAnd watery dangers; while thy whiter hapBut sees these things within thy map.And viewing them with a more safe surveyMak'st easy fear unto thee say,--"A heart thrice wall'd with oak and brass that manHad, first durst plough the ocean".But thou at home, without or tide or gale,Can'st in thy map securely sail:Seeing those painted countries, and so guessBy those fine shades their substances:And, from thy compass taking small advice,Buy'st travel at the lowest price.Nor are thine ears so deaf but thou canst hear,Far more with wonder than with fear,Fame tell of states, of countries, courts, and kings,And believe there be such things:When of these truths thy happier knowledge liesMore in thine ears than in thine eyes.And when thou hear'st by that too true reportVice rules the most or all at court,Thy pious wishes are, though thou not there,Virtue had, and mov'd her sphere.But thou liv'st fearless; and thy face ne'er showsFortune when she comes or goes,But with thy equal thoughts prepared dost stand,To take her by the either hand;Nor car'st which comes the first, the foul or fair:A wise man ev'ry way lies square,And, like a surly oak with storms perplex'd,Grows still the stronger, strongly vex'd.Be so, bold spirit; stand centre-like, unmov'd;And be not only thought, but prov'dTo be what I report thee; and inureThyself, if want comes to endure:And so thou dost, for thy desires areConfin'd to live with private lar:Not curious whether appetite be fedOr with the first or second bread,Who keep'st no proud mouth for delicious cates:Hunger makes coarse meats delicates.Canst, and unurg'd, forsake that larded fare,Which art, not nature, makes so rare,To taste boil'd nettles, colworts, beets, and eatThese and sour herbs as dainty meat,While soft opinion makes thy Genius say,Content makes all ambrosia.Nor is it that thou keep'st this stricter sizeSo much for want as exercise:To numb the sense of dearth, which should sin haste it,Thou might'st but only see't, not taste it.Yet can thy humble roof maintain a choirOf singing crickets by the fire:And the brisk mouse may feast herself with crumbsTill that the green-eyed kitling comes,Then to her cabin blest she can escapeThe sudden danger of a rape:And thus thy little well-kept stock doth proveWealth cannot make a life, but love.Nor art thou so close-handed but canst spend,Counsel concurring with the end,As well as spare, still conning o'er this theme,To shun the first and last extreme.Ordaining that thy small stock find no breach,Or to exceed thy tether's reach:But to live round, and close, and wisely trueTo thine own self, and known to few.Thus let thy rural sanctuary beElysium to thy wife and thee;There to disport yourselves with golden measure:For seldom use commends the pleasure.Live, and live blest, thrice happy pair; let breath,But lost to one, be the other's death.And as there is one love, one faith, one troth,Be so one death, one grave to both.Till when, in such assurance live ye may,Nor fear or wish your dying day.