I HEARE the whistling Plough-man all day long,
Sweetning his labour with a chearful song;
His Bed 's a Pad of Straw ; his dyet, coarse;
In both, he fares not better than his Horse ;
He seldom slakes his thirst, but from the Pump ;
And yet his heart is blithe, his visage, plump;
His thoughts are ne'er acquainted with such things,
As Griefs or Fears; he only sweats and sings:
When as the landed Lord , that cannot dine
Without a Qualm, if not refresht with Wine ;
That cannot judge that controverted case,
'Twixt meat and mouth, without the Bribe of Sauce;
That claims the service of the purest linnen,
To pamper and to shroud his dainty skin in;
Groans out his days, in lab'ring to appease
The rage of either Business or Disease :
Alas, his silken Robes , his costly Diet ,
Can lend a little pleasure, but no Quiet :
The untold sums of his descended wealth
Can give his Body plenty, but not Health :
The one, in Pains, and want, possesses all;
T'other, in Plenty, finds no peace at all;
'Tis strange! And yet the cause is easly showne;
T' one's at God's finding; t'other at his owne.