Poetry Archives

Well 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 th’ 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 belov’d, and loving me.

  O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eas’d of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! 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 murmurs 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 here.