Classic Poem

To my worthy Cousin Mr. E. C.

In praise of the City Life, in the long Vacation.

I like the greene plush which your meadows weare,
I praise your pregnant fields, which duely beare
Their wealthy burden to th' industrious Bore.
Nor doe I disallow that who are poore
In minde and fortune, thither should retire:
But hate that he who's warme with holy fire
Of any knowledge, and 'mong us may feast
On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,
And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong
So much her paines, as to give you a tongue
And fluent language; If converse you hold
With Oxen in the stall, and sheepe ith' fold?
But now it's long Vacation you will say
The towne is empty, and who ever may
To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,
Flyes from th' infection of our London aire.
In this your errour. Now's the time alone
To live here; when the City Dame is gone,
T' her house at Brandford ; for beyond that she
Imagines there's no land, but Barbary ,
Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence
Rid is the Countrey Iustice whose non-sence
Corrupted had the language of the Inne,
Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne
To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench
Not deafens Westminster , nor corrupt French
Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,
By the Vacations powre translated are,
To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The ayre by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,
Thus fled the City: we the civill life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way,
Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,
Contracted to a moment: I retire
To my Castara , and meet such a fire
Of mutuall love: that if the City were
Infected, that would purifie the ayre.

To my worthy Cousin Mr. E. C.

In praise of the City Life, in the long Vacation.

I like the greene plush which your meadows weare,
I praise your pregnant fields, which duely beare
Their wealthy burden to th' industrious Bore.
Nor doe I disallow that who are poore
In minde and fortune, thither should retire:
But hate that he who's warme with holy fire
Of any knowledge, and 'mong us may feast
On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,
And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong
So much her paines, as to give you a tongue
And fluent language; If converse you hold
With Oxen in the stall, and sheepe ith' fold?
But now it's long Vacation you will say
The towne is empty, and who ever may
To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,
Flyes from th' infection of our London aire.
In this your errour. Now's the time alone
To live here; when the City Dame is gone,
T' her house at Brandford ; for beyond that she
Imagines there's no land, but Barbary ,
Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence
Rid is the Countrey Iustice whose non-sence
Corrupted had the language of the Inne,
Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne
To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench
Not deafens Westminster , nor corrupt French
Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,
By the Vacations powre translated are,
To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The ayre by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,
Thus fled the City: we the civill life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way,
Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,
Contracted to a moment: I retire
To my Castara , and meet such a fire
Of mutuall love: that if the City were
Infected, that would purifie the ayre.