Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,
	That dread th’ encroachments of our growing streets,
	Tight boxes neatly sash’d, and in a blaze
	With all a July sun’s collected rays,
	Delight the citizen, who gasping there,
	Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air.
	O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought
	That could afford retirement, or could not?
	’Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,—
	The second milestone fronts the garden gate;
	A step if fair, and if a shower approach
	You find safe shelter in the next stagecoach,
	There prison’d in a parlor snug and small,
	Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,
	The man of business and his friends compress’d,
	Forget their labors, and yet find no rest;
	But still ’tis rural,—trees are to be seen
	From every window, and the fields are green.

Cowper.    

	The villager, born humbly and bred hard,
	Content his wealth, and poverty his guard,
	In action simply just, in conscience clear,
	By guilt untainted, undisturb’d by fear,
	His means but scanty, and his wants but few,
	Labor his business, and his pleasure too,
	Enjoys more comforts in a single hour
	Than ages give the wretch condemn’d to power.

Churchill.