Happy the man, who, remote from business, after the manner of the ancient race of mortals, cultivates his paternal lands with his own oxen, disengaged from every kind of usury; his is neither alarmed with the horrible trumpet, as a soldier, nor dreads he the angry sea; he shuns both the bar, and the proud portals of men in power.

Wherefore, he either weds the lofty Poplars to the mature branches of the Vine; or lopping off the useless boughs with his pruning-knife, he engrafts more fruitful ones; or takes a prospect of the herds of his lowing cattle, wandering about in a lonely vale; or stores his honey, pressed from the combs, in clean vessels; or shears his tender sheep.

Or, when Autumn has lifted up in the field his head adorned with mellow fruits, how glad is he while he gathers Pears grafted by himself, and the Grape that vies with the purple, with which he may recompense thee, O Priapus, and thee, father Sylvanus, the guardian, of his boundaries!

Sometimes he delights to lie under an aged Holm, sometimes on the matted grass: meanwhile the waters glide down from steep clefts; the birds warble in the woods; and the fountains murmur with their purling streams, which invites gentle slumbers.

But when the wintry season of the tempestuous air prepares rains and snows, he either drives the fierce boars, with dogs on every side, into the intercepting toils; or spreads his thin nets with the smooth pole, as a snare for the voracious thrushes; or catches in his gin the timorous hare, or that stranger, the crane, pleasing rewards for his labour.

Amongst such joys as these, who does not forget those mischievous anxieties, which are the property of love? But if a chaste wife, assisting on her part in the management of the house and beloved children, (such as is the Sabine, or the sunburnt spouse of the industrious Apulian) piles up the sacred hearth with old wood, just at the approach of her weary husband, and shutting up the fruitful cattle in the woven hurdles milks dry their distended udders; and drawing this year’s wine out of a well-seasoned cask, prepares the unbought collation; not the Lucrine oysters could delight me more, nor the turbot, nor the scar, should the tempestuous Winter drive any from the Eastern floods to this sea: not the turkey, nor the Asiatic wild fowl, can come into my stomach more agreeable than the Olive, gathered from the richest branches of the trees, or the Sorrel that loves the meadows, or Mallows salubrious for a sickly body, or a lamb slain at the feast of the god Terminus, or a kid just rescued from a wolf.

Amidst these dainties, how it pleases one to see the well-fed sheep hastening home? To see the weary oxen, with drooping neck, dragging the inverted ploughshare! and numerous slaves, the test of a rich family ranged about the smiling household gods!