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Fly from our country pastimes, fly,
Sad troops of human misery,

Come, serene looks,

Clear as the crystal brooks,
Or the pure azured heaven that smiles to see
The rich attendance on our poverty ;

Peace and a secure mind,
Which all men seek, we only find.

Here are no entrapping baits
To hasten to, too hasty fates ;

Unless it be

The fond credulity
Of silly fish, which (worlding like) still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook ;

Nor envy, 'less among
The birds, for price of their sweet song.

Abused mortals ! did you know

Go, let the diving negro seek
Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, For gems, hid in some forlorn creek:
You 'd scorn proud towers

We all pearls scorn
And seek them in these bowers,

Save what the dewy morn Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may Congeals upon each little spire of grass, shake,

Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass ;
But blustering care could never tempest make ; And gold ne'er here appears,
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Save what the yellow Ceres bears.
Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Blest silent groves, 0, may you be,
Here's no fantastic mask nor dance,

Forever, mirth's best nursery !
But of our kids that frisk and prance ;

May pure contents
Nor wars are seen,

Forever pitch their tents
Unless upon the green

Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,

mountains ! Which done, both bleating run, cach to his mother; And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, And wounds are never found,

Which we may every year
Save what the ploughshare gives the Meet, when we come a-fishing here.
ground.

SIR HENRY WOTTOM

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