Lord of a little spot, by all disdain’d,
Where never lab’ring yoke subsistence gain’d,
Where never shepherd gave his flock to feed,
Nor Bacchus dar’d to trust th’ ungrateful mead,
He there with scanty herbs the bushes crown’d,
And planted lilies, vervains, poppies round;
Nor envied kings, when late, at twilight close,
Beneath his peaceful shed he sought repose,
And cull’d from earth, with changeful plenty stor’d,
Th’ unpurchas’d feasts that pil’d his varied board.