Dear Cloe, while the busy croud

First Line Dear Cloe, while the busy croud
Author Nathaniel Cotton
Date 1749

Lyric [Domestic Life; Solitude, loneliness, retirement; Courtship, marriage]. 

Transcribed from "The FIRE-SIDE." London magazine, or, Gentleman's monthly intelligencer, vol. 18, May 1749, pp. 233–234. ProQuest, [ProQuest document ID:] 5227580. 



Dear Chloe, while the busy croud,

The vain the wealthy and the proud,

In folly's maze advance;

Tho' singularity and pride

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire

To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;

No noisy neighbour enters here,

No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heartfelt joys.

Indeed, if happiness we prize,

Within our breasts the jewel lies,

He is a fool that roams:

The world hath nothing to bestow,

From our ownselves our bliss must flow,

And those dear huts our homes.

Our babes shall richest comfort bring,

If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring,

Whence pleasures ever rise:

We'll form their minds with studious care

To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.

While thus they our best thoughts engage,

They'll joy our youth, support our age,

And chear our hoary hairs:

They'll grow in virtue every day,

And thus our anxious souls repay,

And recompence our cares.

No borrow'd joys! They're all our own,

While to the world we live unknown,

Or by the world forgot,

Monarchs, we envy not your state,

We look with pity on the great,

And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed,

But then how little do we need?

For nature's calls are few:

In this the art of living lies,

To want no more than may suffice,

And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content,

Whate'er kind Providence hath sent,

Nor aim beyond our pow'r;

For if our stock be very small,

'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.

To acquiesce in what is given

Is the sure way of pleasing heav'n,

And when our feast is o'er,

Grateful from table we'll arise,

Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes,

The reliques of our store.

Thus hand in hand thro' life we'll go,

Its varied paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread;

Quit its vain scenes without a tear,

Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead:

While conscience, like a faithful friend,

Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,

And chear our dying breath;

Shall, when all other comforts cease,

Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.