Book I, 77: On the Plough-man

I Heare the whistling Plough-man, all day long,
Sweetning his labour with a chearefull song:
His Bed's a Pad of Straw; His dyet, course;
In both, he fares not better then his Horse:
He seldome slakes his thirst, but from the Pumpe,
And yet his heart is blithe; his visage, plumpe
His thoughts are nere acquainted with such things.
As Griefes or Feares; He onely sweats, and sings:
When as the Landed Lord, that cannot dine
Without a Qualme, if not refresht with Wine;
That cannot judge that controverted case,
'Twixt meat & mouth, without the Bribe of Sauce
That claimes the service to the purest linnen,
To pamper and to shroud his dainty skin in,
Groanes out his dayes, in lab'ring to appease
The rage of either Buisnes, or Disease:
Alas, his silken Robes, his costly Diet
Can lend a little pleasure, but no Quiet:
The untold summes of his descended wealth
Can give his Body plenty, but not Health:
The one, in Paynes, and want, possesses all;
T'other, in Plenty, findes no peace at all;
'Tis strange! And yet the cause is easly knowne;
Tone's at Gods finding; t'other, at his owne.