THE Day's grown old, the fainting Sun <br />Has but a little way to run, <br />And yet his steeds, with all his skill, <br />Scarce lug the chariot down the hill. <br />With labour spent, and thirst opprest, <br />Whilst they strain hard to gain the West, <br />From fetlocks hot drops melted light, <br />Which turn to meteors in the Night. <br />The shadows now so long do grow, <br />That brambles like tall cedars show, <br />Mole-hills seem mountains, and the ant <br />Appears a monstrous elephant. <br />A very little little flock <br />Shades thrice the ground that it would stock; <br />Whilst the small stripling following them <br />Appears a mighty Polypheme. <br />These being brought into the fold, <br />And by the thrifty master told <br />, [counted] <br />He thinks his wages are well paid, <br />Since none are either lost or stray'd. <br />Now lowing herds are each-where heard, <br />Chains rattle in the villian's <br />yard, [farmer] <br />The cart's on tail set down to rest, <br />Bearing on high the cuckold's crest. <br />The hedge is stripp'd, the clothes brought in, <br />Nought's left without should be within, <br />The bees are hiv'd, and hum their charm, <br />Whilst every house does seem a swarm. <br />The cock now to the roost is press'd: <br />For he must call up all the rest; <br />The sow's fast-pegg'd within the sty, <br />To still her squeaking progeny. <br />Each one has had his supping mess*, [meal] <br />The cheese is put into the press, <br />The pans and bowls are scalded all, <br />Rear'd up against the milk-house wall. <br />And now on benches all are sat <br />In the cool air to sit and chat, <br />Till Phoebus, dipping in the West, <br />Shall lead the World the way to rest.<br /><br />Charles Cotton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-evening-quatrains/
