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In ways to greatness, think on this, That slippery all ambition is.


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END. PORTER, GROOM OF THE BEDCHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTY. Sweet country life, to such unknown Whose lives are others', not their own! But serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee. Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam To seek and bring rough pepper home; Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove To bring from thence the scorched clove; Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the West. No, thy ambition's masterpiece Flies no thought higher than a fleece; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year: But walk'st about thine own dear bounds, Not envying others larger grounds: For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent Of land makes life, but sweet content. When now the cock (the ploughman's horn) Calls forth the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know That the best compost for the lands