If she in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor ; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake

My sober appetite would wish,

Nor turbot, or the foreign filh That rolling tempefts overtake,

And hither waft the costly dish. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,

Which Phasis or Ionia yields,
More pleasing morsels would afford
Than the fat olives of

my
fields

; Than fhards or mallows for the pot,

That keep the loofen'd body found, Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the just guardian of my ground. Amidst these feasts of happy swains,

The jolly shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the plains ;

The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen fweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke;
To look upon his menial crew,

That fit around his chearful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholsome food and country mirth.
This Morecraft said within himself,

Resolv'd to leave the wicked town:
And live retir'd upon

his

own, He call'd his

money
But the prevailing love of pelf,

Soon split him on the former shelf,
He put it out again.

in ;

The End of the SECOND VOLUME.