661. Ambition

In ways to greatness, think on this,That slippery all ambition is.

Sweet country life, to such unknownWhose lives are others', not their own!But serving courts and cities, beLess happy, less enjoying thee.Thou never plough'st the ocean's foamTo seek and bring rough pepper home;Nor to the Eastern Ind dost roveTo bring from thence the scorched clove;Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,Bring'st home the ingot from the West.No, thy ambition's masterpieceFlies no thought higher than a fleece;Or how to pay thy hinds, and clearAll scores, and so to end the year:But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,Not envying others larger grounds:For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extentOf land makes life, but sweet content.When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost knowThat the best compost for the landsIs the wise master's feet and hands.There at the plough thou find'st thy teamWith a hind whistling there to them;And cheer'st them up by singing howThe kingdom's portion is the plough.This done, then to th' enamelled meadsThou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,Thou see'st a present God-like powerImprinted in each herb and flower;And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine,Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neatUnto the dew-laps up in meat;And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,The heifer, cow, and ox draw nearTo make a pleasing pastime there.These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocksOf sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,And find'st their bellies there as fullOf short sweet grass as backs with wool,And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,A shepherd piping on a hill.For sports, for pageantry and playsThou hast thy eves and holidays;On which the young men and maids meetTo exercise their dancing feet;Tripping the comely country round,With daffodils and daisies crown'd.Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast,Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd;Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale,Thy shearing feast which never fail;Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole;Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kingsAnd queens, thy Christmas revellings,Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,And no man pays too dear for it.To these, thou hast thy times to goAnd trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;Thy witty wiles to draw, and getThe lark into the trammel net;Thou hast thy cockrood and thy gladeTo take the precious pheasant made;Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls thenTo catch the pilfering birds, not men.O happy life! if that their goodThe husbandmen but understood!Who all the day themselves do please,And younglings, with such sports as these,And lying down have nought t' affrightSweet sleep, that makes more short the night.Cætera desunt ----

Soil'd, manured.Compost, preparation.Fox i' th' hole, a hopping game in which boys beat each other withgloves.Cockrood, a run for snaring woodcocks.Glade, an opening in the wood across which nets were hung to catchgame. (Willoughby, Ornithologie, i. 3.)