Laudes Rei Rusticæ. Epod. 2. Poem by John Ashmore

The Argvment.
He many wayes the life doth praise,
That menith' countrey finde:
Amongst the rest, he likes that best
For quietnes of minde.
Hee's blest, from City turmoyls free
(As whilome men were wont to be)
His Sire-less land with his owne steers
That plowes, and Vsurers ne'r feares.
Alarums fierce him doe not raise,
Nor trembles he at th'angry Seas:
He the proud gates of great men flees.
To Lawyers he creeps not with fees;
But to the youthfull Vine doth wed
The Poplar with his stately head,
Or else dead branches off doth cut,
And better in their roome doth put.
Or in the winding valley he,
Sees where his heads of cattell be;
Or hony layes up safe to keep
In pots, or sheares his feeble sheep:
Or when Autumnus head is crownd
With apples ripe in each field found,
How glad's he peares he graft to pull,
Or grapes of pleasant liquorfull,
With which he Priape thee rewards,
Or Sylvan that the fields regards?
Now under th'aged Oke he'll rest,
Now on the grass, as he likes best.
Meane while from hils the waters fling,
And in the woods the birds doe sing,
The bubbling fountains murmurings make,
And him invite a nap to to take.
But, when sharp winter cold doth blowe
Ith' thundring ayre with sleet and snowe,
With dogs he drives the eager Bore
Into the toyles prepar'd before;
Or stretches forth his nets on stakes,
With which the greedy Thrush he takes,
The farre-come Crane, or fear-full Hare
(His pains sweet pay) he doth insnare.
Thus busi'd, who doth not forget
The cares that lazie Lovers fret?
But if his modest wife part beare
In guiding th'house and children dear
(As Sabines and the sun-burnt wife
Of sterne Apulia led their life)
And sacred fire of dry wood burne
Against her Good-man home returne:
If the milch Yewes to Fold she bring,
And milking them doe something sing,
And draw forth wine, and spread the boord
With th'unbought cates the Farms affoord,
No Leverine shell-fish more likes me,
Nor Bret, nor dainty Golden-eye,
In Eastern Seas if any tost
A storm doe drive upon our Coast.
I love not more an Affrick hen,
Nor the Ionian Attagen,
Then Olives ripe, that gathered be
From fattest branches of the tree;
Or Rheubarb that doth love the field,
Or Mallowes that good physick yeeld,
Or Lamb slain at the Land-marks feast,
Or Kid from the Wolves iawes releast.
Thus feasting, how much doth't him good
To see his full-fed flocks home scud?
To see, with necks faint, drouping how
The Oxen draw the turnd-up plow?
And Hindes; the swarme rich men desire,
Beaking themselves before the fire?
The Vsurer Alphëus (this said)
A countrey life then needs would lead:
Ith' Ides his mony forth, cald-in;
Ith' Calends it layes out agen.