| HOW vainly men themselves amaze | |
| To win the Palm, the Oke, or Bayes; | |
| And their uncessant Labours see | |
| Crown'd from some single Herb or Tree, | |
| Whose short and narrow verged Shade | 5 |
| Does prudently their Toyles upbraid; | |
| While all Flow'rs and all Trees do close | |
| To weave the Garlands of repose. | |
| |
| Fair quiet, have I found thee here, | |
| And Innocence thy Sister dear! | 10 |
| Mistaken long, I sought you then | |
| In busie Companies of Men. | |
| Your sacred Plants, if here below, | |
| Only among the Plants will grow. | |
| Society is all but rude, | 15 |
| To this delicious Solitude. | |
| |
| No white nor red was ever seen | |
| So am'rous as this lovely green. | |
| Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame, | |
| Cut in these Trees their Mistress name. | 20 |
| Little, Alas, they know, or heed, | |
| How far these Beauties Hers exceed! | |
| Fair Trees! where s'eer your barkes I wound, | |
| No Name shall but your own be found. | |
| |
| When we have run our Passions heat, | 25 |
| Love hither makes his best retreat. | |
| The Gods, that mortal Beauty chase, | |
| Still in a Tree did end their race. | |
| Apollo hunted Daphne so, | |
| Only that She might Laurel grow. | 30 |
| And Pan did after Syrinx speed, | |
| Not as a Nymph, but for a Reed. | |
| |
| What wond'rous Life in this I lead! | |
| Ripe Apples drop about my head; | |
| The Luscious Clusters of the Vine | 35 |
| Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine; | |
| The Nectaren, and curious Peach, | |
| Into my hands themselves do reach; | |
| Stumbling on Melons, as I pass, | |
| Insnar'd with Flow'rs, I fall on Grass. | 40 |
| |
| Mean while the Mind, from pleasure less, | |
| Withdraws into its happiness: | |
| The Mind, that Ocean where each kind | |
| Does streight its own resemblance find; | |
| Yet it creates, transcending these, | 45 |
| Far other Worlds, and other Seas; | |
| Annihilating all that's made | |
| To a green Thought in a green Shade. | |
| |
| Here at the Fountains sliding foot, | |
| Or at some Fruit-trees mossy root, | 50 |
| Casting the Bodies Vest aside, | |
| My Soul into the boughs does glide: | |
| There like a Bird it sits, and sings, | |
| Then whets, and combs its silver Wings; | |
| And, till prepar'd for longer flight, | 55 |
| Waves in its Plumes the various Light. | |
| |
| Such was that happy Garden-state, | |
| While Man there walk'd without a Mate: | |
| After a Place so pure, and sweet, | |
| What other Help could yet be meet! | 60 |
| But 'twas beyond a Mortal's share | |
| To wander solitary there: | |
| Two Paradises 'twere in one | |
| To live in Paradise alone. | |
| |
| How well the skilful Gardner drew | 65 |
| Of flow'rs and herbes this Dial new; | |
| Where from above the milder Sun | |
| Does through a fragrant Zodiack run; | |
| And, as it works, th' industrious Bee | |
| Computes its time as well as we. | 70 |
| How could such sweet and wholsome Hours | |
| Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs! | |
| |
