If the in pens his flocks will fold,
And then produce her dairy ftore, With wine to drive away the cold, And unbought dainties of the poor; Not oyfters of the Lucrine lake
My fober appetite would wifh,
Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
That rolling tempefts overtake,
And hither waft the costly dish.
Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,
Which Fhafis or Ionia yields,
More pleafing morfels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields
Than fhards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loofen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot
To the juft guardian of my ground.
Amidst thefe feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd fmiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen fweating fmoke,
Bear on their necks the loofen'd yoke;
To look upon his menial crew,
That fit around his chearful hearth,
And bodies fpent in toil renew
With wholfome food and country mirth.
This Morecraft faid within himself,
Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:
And live retir'd upon his own,
He call'd his money in;
But the prevailing love of pelf,
Soon fplit him on the former fhelf,
He put it out again.
The End of the SECOND VOLUME.