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The Quiet Life
Happy the man, whose wish and
care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with
bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him
shade,
In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft
away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does
please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus lamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
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