William Drummond, of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,

Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;

Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird’s harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince’s throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

Or how more sweet is Zephyr’s wholesome breath,

And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold,

Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold!

The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;

Woods’ harmless shades have only true delights.