Classic Poem

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields
Spent all his time, to whom one Cottage yields
In age and youth a lodging: who grown old
Walks with his staff on the same soil and mold
Where he did creep an infant , and can tell
Many fair years spent in one quiet Cell !
No toils of fate made him from home far known,
Nor forreign waters drank, driv'n from his own.
No loss by Sea , no wild lands wastful war
Vex'd him; not the brib'd Coil of gowns at bar.
Exempt from cares , in Cities never seen
The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green
The years set turns by fruits , not Consuls knows;
Autumn by apples: May by blossom'd boughs
Within one hedg his Sun doth set and rise,
The world's wide day his short Demeasnes comprise.
Where he observes some known, concrescent twig
Now grown an Oak , and old, like him, and big
Verona he doth for the Indies take,
And as the red Sea counts Benacus lake.
Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he
A lusty Grandsire three descents doth see.
Travel and sail who will, search sea, or shore;
This man hath liv'd , and that hath wander'd more.