Tixall Poetry/Rusticatio Religiosi in Vacantiis
Rusticatio religiosi in vacantiis.
Quivering feares, heart-tearing cares,Anxious sighes, untimely teares, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to find worldly harts;Where strain'd sardonick smiles are glossing still,And griefe is forc'd to laugh against his will; Where mirth is but mummery, And sorrows only reall be.
Fly from our country pastime, fly,Sad troopes of humane misery. Come, serened lookes, Cleare as these cristall brookes,Or the pure azure heaven, that smiles to seeThe rich attendance of our poverty; Peace, and a secure mind, Which all men seeke, we only find.
Abused mortals, did you know,Where joy, hart's ease, and comforts grow, You'd scorne proud towers, And seeke them in these bowers,Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake,But blustering Care can never tempest make; Nor murmurs ere come nigh us, Saving of fountains which glide by us.
Here's no fantastike maske, or dance,But of our kids that frisk and prance; Nor wars are seene, Unless upon the greeneTwo harmles lambs are butting one the other,Which done, both bleating run each to his mother: Nor wounds are ever found, Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.
Here are no false entrapping baitesTo hasten too too hasty fates, Unies it be The fond credulityOf silly fish, which worldlings like, still lookUpon the baite, and never on the hooke: Nor envy, unies among The birds, for praise of their sweet song.
Go, let the diving negro seekeFor gemmes in some forlorne creeke; We pearles do scorne, Save what the dewy morneCongeals upon each spire of grass,Which careles sheapheards beat downe as they passe: And gold nere here appeares But what the yellow Ceres beares.
Sweet silent groves, O may you beFor ever mirth's blest nursery. May pure contents For ever pitch their tentsUpon these meads, these downs, these rocks, these mountains;And peace still slumber by these purling fountains; Which we may every yeare Find when we come to sojourne here.