AH! yet, ere I descend to the 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!

OH Fountains! when in you shall I
Myself, eas’d of unpeaceful Thoughts, espy?
Oh Fields! oh Woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy Tenant of your shade?
Here’s the Spring-head of Pleasure’s Flood,
Where all the Riches lye 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 Eccho flatter.
The Gods, when they descended hither
From Heav’n, did always chuse their Way;
And therefore we may boldly say,
That ’tis the Way too thither.