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 With thee, O Priapus, he joys to share The blushing vintage and the golden pear. At times he watches, 'neath the spreading oak, O'er distant hamlets rise the curling smoke; Sits where smooth-flowing waters glide along, And forest minstrels warble out their song, Or fountains murmur with melodious sound, And cast their slumbering influence around. But when the wintry storms of angry Jove Deform the skies and shake the realms above, He frees the eager pack and, 'mid the roar, Drives full into his snares the foaming boar; Or spreads the wiry net with artful care, And traps the wary quail or timid hare. Oh! who could not, mid happiness such as this, Turn ev'n the pangs of love to perfect bliss? But if a virtuous wife may chance to share His heart and household, her maternal care Piles up the hearth, and warms the humble dome, To cheer her spouse returning wearied home; Then pens in folds secure the lowing brood, And from their swollen udders gleans the milky food. If fare like this, though humble, be our lot, Contentment fills our hearts because unsought. Not all the delicacies wealth affords, Or all that decks Apicius' shining boards, Can sweeter fragrance to the laborer yield Than fresh-pulled cowslips from the flowery field, Or smell more savory than the roasted lamb, Just torn from the caresses of its dam. And then, 'mid such enjoyment, to behold The well-fed flocks returning to the fold,