Alexander Pope

Our rural ancestors with little blest,
Patient of labour when the end was rest,
Indulg'd the day read more

Our rural ancestors with little blest,
Patient of labour when the end was rest,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain,
With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.

For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.

Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.

Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil,
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.

Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey;
That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

Th' embroider'd suit at least he deem'd his prey;
That suit an unpaid tailor snatched away.

But honest instinct comes a volunteer;
Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit,
While still too read more

But honest instinct comes a volunteer;
Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit,
While still too wide or short in human wit.