And birds’ sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country plays is all the strife he uses,
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And, but in music’s sports, all difference refuses.
His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets and rich content:
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide’s rage is spent:
His life is neither tost in boist’rous seas
Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease;