Pastoral Fancies

Sweet pastime here my mind so entertains,
Abiding pleasaunce, and heart-feeding joys,
To meet this blithsome day these painted plains,
These singing maids, and chubby laughing boys,
Which hay-time and the summer here employs,—
My rod and line doth all neglected lie;
A higher joy my former sport destroys:
Nature this day doth bait the hook, and I
The glad fish am, that's to be caught thereby.

This silken grass, these pleasant flowers in bloom,
Among these tasty molehills that do lie
Like summer cushions, for all guests that come;
Those little feathered folk, that sing and fly
Above these trees, in that so gentle sky,
Where not a cloud dares soil its heavenly light;
And this smooth river softly grieving bye —
All fill mine eyes with so divine a sight,
As makes me sigh that it should e'er be night.

In sooth, methinks the choice I most should prize
Were in these meadows of delight to dwell,
To share the joyaunce heaven elsewhere denies,
The calmness that doth relish passing well,
The quiet conscience, that aye bears the bell,
And happy musing Nature would supply,
Leaving no room for troubles to rebel:
Here would I think all day, at night would lie,
The hay my bed, my coverlid the sky.

So would I live, as nature might command,
Taking with Providence my wholesome meals;
Plucking the savory peascod from the land,
Where rustic lad oft dainty dinner steals.
For drink, I'd hie me where the moss conceals
The little spring so chary from the sun,
Then lie, and listen to the merry peals
Of distant bells — all other noises shun;
Then court the Muses till the day be done.

Here would high joys my lowly choice requite,
For garden plot, I'd choose this flow'ry lea;
Here I in culling nosegays would delight,
The lambtoe tuft, the paler culverkey:
The cricket's mirth were talk enough for me,
When talk I needed; and when warmed to pray,
The little birds my choristers should be,
Who wear one suit for worship and for play,
And make the whole year long one sabbath-day.