To Mr G. F., then in the Country. Writ in 1681

Ah Friend! Oft have I wish't my self with you,
Walking among the Meads and pregnant Fields,
Now in sweet Dales, and then on Hills to view
How every Spring fresh streams of pleasure yields:
Where true content so very seldom found,
(If any where) eternally does dwell;
Where all the store of Nature does abound,
To feast the Eye, the Ear, the Tast and Smell:
But, Ah! reserv'd for some more rigid fate,
I'me doom'd to a perpetual Bondage here,
Just in the Bosom of a murmuring State,
Where Tumults reign as in their proper sphere.
The greatest Storms are soonest overpast,
They do but make a Visit and away;
But here the wrack eternally does last,
And without Intermission Night, or Day.
Wer't possible to mount among the Clouds,
When Thunder does with greatest fury rave;
Compar'd with London they were peaceful shrouds,
Still as a Calm, and silent as the grave.
Nor wonder at it; Murder, Schism, Debate,
Treach'ry, Revenge, with thousand Mischiefs more,
Make a more loud Report than anger'd Fate,
When Winds below and Heav'n above does roar:

Ah loving Friend! how happy shou'd I be,
Were I remov'd as far from the lewd Town as thee?