SONNET.
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 Eternal Love.
O how more sweet is bird’s harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow’d dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince’s throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr’s wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm’d, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams, to poisons drank in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods’ harmless shades have only true delights.
William Drummond, 1585–1649.
