THE
VILLAGE.
BOOK II.
NO longer truth, though shown in verse, disdain,But own the Village Life a life of pain;I too must yield, that oft amid these woesAre gleams of transient mirth and hours of sweet repose.Such as you find on yonder sportive Green,The 'Squire's tall gate and churchway-walk between;Where loitering stray a little tribe of friends,On a fair Sunday when the sermon ends:Then rural beaux their best attire put on,To win their nymphs, as other nymphs are won;While those long wed go plain, and by degrees,Like other husbands, quit their care to please.Some of the sermon talk, a sober crowd,And loudly praise, if it were preach'd aloud;Some on the labours of the week look round,Feel their own worth, and think their toil renown'd;
