The Fatigue

Adieu, fond World, and all thy wiles,
Thy haughty frowns, and treacherous smiles,
They that behold thee with my eyes,
Thy double dealing will despise:
From thee, false World, my deadly foe,
Into some desert let me go;
Some gloomy melancholy cave,
Dark and silent as the grave;
Let me withdraw, where I may be
From thine impertinences free:
There when I hear the turtle groan,
How sweetly would I make my moan!
Kind Philomel would teach me there
My sorrows pleasantly to bear:
There could I correspond with none
But Heaven, and my own breast alone.