'Tis thus, my Lord, I, free from strife,
Spend an inglorious country life;
These are the joys I still pursue,
When absent from the town and you:
Thus pass long summer suns away,
Busily idle, calmly gay;
Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, or wishing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And seeing, in all publick places,
The same vain fops and painted faces,
Wou'd sometimes kindly condescend
To visit a dull country friend:
Here you'll be ever sure to meet
A hearty welcome, tho' no treat,
One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himself and you:
A house, where quiet guards the door,
No rural wits smoak, drink and roar;
Choice books, safe horses, wholsome liquor,
Clean girls, backgammon, and the vicar.