Classic Poem

Thence to the city once I thought to go,
But somewhat in my mind this thought had thrown,
It was a place wherein I was not known,
And therefore went unto these homely towns,
Sweetly environ'd with the daisied downs.
Upon a stream washing a village end
A mill is plac'd, that never difference kenn'd
'Twixt days for work, and holy-tides for rest,
But always wrought and ground the neighbours' grist.
Before the door I saw the miller walking,
And other two (his neighbours) with him talking:
One of them was a weaver, and the other
The village tailor, and his trusty brother.
To them I came, and thus my suit began:
Content, the riches of a country-man,
Attend your actions, be more happy still
Than I am hapless! and as yonder mill,
Though in his turning it obey the stream,
Yet by the headstrong torrent from his beam
Is unremov'd, and till the wheel be tore,
It daily toils; then rests, and works no more:
So in life's motion may you never be
(Though sway'd with griefs) o'erborne with misery.
With that the miller, laughing, brush'd his clothes,
Then swore by Cock and other dunghill oaths,
I greatly was to blame that durst so wade
Into the knowledge of the wheelwright's trade.
Ay, neighbour quoth the tailor (then he bent
His pace to me, spruce like a Jack of Lent)
Your judgment is not seam-rent when you spend it,
Nor is it botching, for I cannot mend it.
And, maiden, let me tell you in displeasure,
You must not press the cloth you cannot measure:
But let your steps be stitch'd to Wisdom's chalking,
And cast presumptuous shreds out of your walking.
The weaver said, Fie, wench! yourself you wrong,
Thus to let slip the shuttle of your tongue;
For mark me well, yea, mark me well, I say,
I see you work your speech's web astray.
Sad to the soul, o'erlaid with idle words,
O Heaven! quoth I, where is the place affords
A friend to help, or any heart that ru'th
The most dejected hopes of wronged Truth?
Truth! quoth the miller, plainly for our parts,
I and the weaver hate thee with our hearts:
The strifes you raise I will not now discuss,
Between our honest customers and us:
But get you gone, for sure you may despair
Of comfort here, seek it some otherwhere.
Maid (quoth the tailor) we no succour owe you,
For as I guess here's none of us doth know you:
Nor my remembrance any thought can seize
That I have ever seen you in my days.
Seen you? nay, therein confident I am;
Nay, till this time I never heard your name,
Excepting once, and by this token chief,
My neighbour at that instant call'd me thief.
By this you see you are unknown among us,
We cannot help you, though your stay may wrong us.
Thus went I on, and further went in woe:
For as shrill-sounding Fame, that's never slow,
Grows in her going, and increaseth more,
Where she is now, than where she was before:
So Grief (that never healthy, ever sick,
That forward scholar to arithmetic,
Who doth division and subtraction fly,
And chiefly learns to add and multiply)
In longest journeys hath the strongest strength,
And is at hand, suppress'd, unquail'd at length.
Between two hills, the highest Phaebus sees
Gallantly crown'd with large sky-kissing trees,
Under whose shade the humble valleys lay;
And wild boars from their dens their gambols play:
There lay a gravell'd walk o'ergrown with green,
Where neither tract of man nor beast was seen.
And as the ploughman, when the land he tills,
Throws up the fruitful earth in ridged hills,
Between whose chevron form he leaves a balk;
So 'twixt those hills had Nature fram'd this walk,
Not over-dark, nor light, in angels bending,
And like the gliding of a snake, descending;
All hush'd and silent as the mid of night;
No chatt'ring pie, nor crow appear'd in sight;
But further in I heard the turtle-dove
Singing sad dirges on her lifeless love.
Birds that compassion from the rocks could bring,
Had only license in that place to sing:
Whose doleful notes the melancholy cat
Close in a hollow tree sat wond'ring at.
And trees that on the hill-side comely grew,
When any little blast of Æol blew,
Did nod their curled heads, as they would be
The judges to approve their melody.
Just half the way this solitary grove,
A crystal spring from either hill-side strove,
Which of them first should woo the meeker ground,
And makes the pebbles dance unto their sound.
But as when children having leave to play,
And near their master's eye sport out the day,
(Beyond condition) in their childish toys
Oft vex their tutor with too great a noise,
And make him send some servant out of door,
To cease their clamour, lest they play no more:
So when the pretty rill a place espies,
Where with the pebbles she would wantonize,
And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her
To drive her thence, and let her play no longer;
If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away,
As being much incens'd to leave her play,
A western, mild and pretty whispering gale
Came dallying with the leaves along the dale,
And seem'd as with the water it did chide,
Because it ran so long unpacified:
Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil,
Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil:
Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep,
And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.