XIV. To his Bailiff.
Villice silvarum.
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OOD bailiff of my farm, that snug domain
Which makes its master feel himself again,
Which, though you sniff at it, could once support
Five hearths, and send five statesmen to the court,
Let's have a match in husbandry; we'll try
Which can do weeding better, you or I,
And see if Horace more repays the hand
That clears him of his thistles, or his land.
Though here I'm kept administering relief
To my poor Lamia's broken-hearted grief
For his lost brother, ne'ertheless my thought
Flies to my woods, and counts the distance nought.
You praise the townsman's, I the rustic's state:
Admiring others' lots, our own we hate:
Each blames the place he lives in: but the mind
Is most in fault, which ne'er leaves self behind.
A town-house drudge, for farms you used to sigh;
Now towns and shows and baths are all your cry:
But I'm consistent with myself: you know
I grumble, when to Rome I'm forced to go.
Truth is, our standards differ: what your taste
Condemns, forsooth, as so much savage waste,
