by: Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)

      ELL then! I now do plainly see
      This busy world and I shall ne'er agree.
      The very honey of all earthly joy
      Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
      And they, methinks, deserve my pity
      Who for it can endure the stings,
      The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings,
      Of this great hive, the city.
      Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave,
      May I a small house and large garden have;
      And a few friends, and many books, both true,
      Both wise, and both delightful too!
      And since love ne'er will from me flee,
      A Mistress moderately fair,
      And good as guardian angels are,
      Only beloved and loving me.
      O fountains! when in you shall I
      Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
      O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
      The happy tenant of your shade?
      Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood:
      Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,
      Where all the riches lie that she
      Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.
      Pride and ambition here
      Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;
      Here nought but winds can hurtful mumurs scatter,
      And nought but Echo flatter.
      The gods, when they descended, hither
      From heaven did always choose their way:
      And therefore we may boldly say
      That 'tis the way too thither.
      How happy here should I
      And one dear She live, and embracing die!
      She who is all the world, and can exclude
      In deserts solitude.
      I should have then this only fear:
      Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
      Should hither throng to live like me,
      And so make a city there.




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