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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 eternall Love:
O how more sweet is Birds harmonious Moane,
Or the hoarse Sobbings of the widow'd Dove,
Than those smooth whisperings neer a Princes Throne,
Which Good make doubtfull do the evill approve?
O how more sweet is Zephyres wholesome Breath,
And Sighs embalm'd, which new-born Flow'rs unfold,
Than that applause vaine Honour doth bequeath?
How sweet are Streames to poyson dranke in Gold?
The World is full of Horrours, Troubles, Slights,
Woods harmelesse Shades have only true Delights▪