For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent

Of land makes life, but sweet con

tent.

When now the cock, the ploughman's horne,

Calls forth the lily-wristed morne; Then to thy cornfields thou dost go, Which, though well soyl'd, yet thou dost know,

That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands: There at the plough thou find'st thy teame,

With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up, by singing how

The kingdom's portion is the plough; This done, then to the enameled meads

Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,

Thou seest a present godlike power Imprinted in each herbe and flower; And smell'st the breath of great-eyed

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,

Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,

And all these merry days mak'st merry men

Thyself and melancholy streams.

But ah! the sickle! golden ears are cropt;

Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night; Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt,

And what scythes spared winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool! and now green ice, thy joys

Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass

Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and poise

Their floods with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends, we will create

A genuine summer in each other's breast;

And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,

Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally

As vestal flames; the North-wind,

he Shall strike his frost-stretched wings, dissolve, and fly

This Etna in epitome. Dropping December shall come weeping in,

Bewail th' usurping of his reign; But when in showers of old Greek* we begin,

Shall cry, he hath his crown again!

Night as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip

From the light casements where we play,

And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,

And stick there everlasting day.

Greek wine.

Thus richer than untempted kings

are we,

That asking nothing, nothing need;

Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he

That wants himself is poor indeed. RICHARD LOVELACE.

TO JOANNA.

As it befell,

One summer morning we had walked abroad

At break of day, Joanna and myself. 'Twas that delightful season when the broom,

Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,

Along the copses runs in veins of gold.

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's

banks;

And when we came in front of that tall rock

That eastward looks, I there stopped short, and stood

Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues, In one impression, by connecting force

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.

When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.

The Rock, like something starting from a sleep.

Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again:

That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag

Was ready with her cavern; Ham