With strawy cabins now her courts should build.
The weary soldier hath the conquered fields,
His sword, laid by, safe, tho' rude places yields;[285]20
The dock inharbours ships drawn from the floods,
Horse freed from service range abroad the woods.
And time it was for me to live in quiet,
That have so oft served pretty wenches' diet.
Yet should I curse a God, if he but said,
"Live without love," so sweet ill is a maid.
For when my loathing it of heat deprives me,