And oft with fervent wish repeat—

“When shall I see my sweet retreat?

Oh! when with books of sages deep,

Sequester’d ease, and gentle sleep,

In sweet oblivion, blissful balm!

The busy cares of life becalm?

Oh! when shall I enrich my veins,

Spite of Pythagoras, with beans?

Or live luxurious in my cottage,

On bacon ham and savoury pottage?

O joyous nights! delicious feasts!

At which the gods might be my guests.”

My friends and I regal’d, my slaves

Enjoy what their rich master leaves.

There every guest may drink and fill,

As much, or little, as he will,

Exempted from the bedlam-rules

Or roaring prodigals and fools:

Whether, in merry mood or whim,

He fills his bumper to the brim,

Or, better pleas’d to let it pass.

Grows mellow with a moderate glass.

Nor this man’s house, nor that’s estate,

Becomes the subject of debate;

Nor whether Lepos, the buffoon,

Can dance, or not, a rigadoon;

But what concerns us more, I trow,

And were a scandal not to know;

Whether our bliss consist in store

Of riches, or in virtue’s lore:

Whether esteem, or private ends,

Should guide us in the choice of friends:

Or what, if rightly understood,

Man’s real bliss, and sovereign good.

While thus we spend the social night,

Still mixing profit with delight,

My neighbour Cervius never fails

To club his part in pithy tales:

Suppose, Arellius, one should praise

Your anxious opulence: he says—

A country mouse, as authors tell,

Of old invited to his cell

A city mouse, and with his best

Would entertain the courtly guest.

Thrifty he was, and full of cares

To make the most of his affairs,

Yet in the midst of his frugality

Would give a loose to hospitality.

In short, he goes, and freely fetches

Whole ears of hoarded oats, and vetches;

Dry grapes and raisins cross his chaps,

And dainty bacon, but in scraps,

If delicacies could invite

My squeamish courtier’s appetite,

Who turn’d his nose at every dish,

And saucy piddled, with a—Pish!

The master of the house, reclin’d

On downy chaff, more temperate din’d

On wheat, and darnel from a manger,

And left the dainties for the stranger.

The cit, displeas’d at his repast,

Address’d our simple host at last:

“My friend, what pleasure can you find,

To live this mountain’s back behind?

Would you prefer the town and men,

To this wild wood, and dreary den,

No longer, moping, loiter here,

But go with me to better cheer.

“Since animals but draw their breath,

And have no being after death;

Since nor the little, nor the great.

Can shun the rigour of their fate;

At least be merry while you may,

The life of mice is but a day:

Come then, my friend, to pleasure give

The little life you have to live.”

Encourag’d thus, the country mouse,

Transported, sallies from his house: