How blest art thou, canst love the country, Wroth,
Whether by choice, or fate, or both;
And, though so near the city and the court,
Art ta’en with neither’s vice nor sport;
That, at great times, are no ambitious guest
Of sheriff’s dinner or mayor’s feast, Nor com’st to view the better cloth of state,
The richer hangings, or crown-plate,
Nor throng’st, when masquing is, to have a sight
Of the short bravery of the night,
To view the jewels, stuffs, the pains, the wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet;
But canst at home in thy securer rest
Live, with un-bought provision blessed,
Free from proud porches, or their gilded roofs,
‘Mongst lowing herds and solid hoofs,
Alongst the curled woods and painted meads
Through which a serpent river leads
To some cool, courteous shade, which he calls his,
And makes sleep softer than it is!

Ben Jonson, from “To Sir Robert Wroth.”