Ah! may the gods ordain our lot
Beneath some little rush-roof’d cot,
Far off from noisy town
Releas’d from fashion’s idle care
A plain mob cap I’ll only wear
And linsy woolsy gown.
Not fowl — nor fish — not butchers meat
Shall ere pollute our sylvan seat
With bloody slaughter cruel,
But lettuce — cress — and peppermint
Our light repast will never stint
Nor frugal water gruel.
Beside some streamlets rushy brink
Together we will sit and think,
But on no useful matter
To fortune we will leave the care
To wash and comb the children’s hair
And fill their empty platter.
Thus undisturb’d our days shall pass
Beneath the bough and on the grass
When write on our grave-stone
Here lies a pair that never thought
No begg’d — nor borrow’d — stole — nor wrought
Content with love alone!