Felix, qui propriis avum transegit in arvis,
Una domus puerum, &c.
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 mould
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 foreign waters drank, driv'n from his own.
No loss by sea, no wild land's wasteful 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 year's set turns by fruits, not consuls, knows;
Autumn by apples, May by blossom'd boughs.
Within one hedge his sun doth set and rise,
The world's wide day his short demesnes 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.