OW vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays:
And their incessant labours see
Crown’d from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flow’rs, and trees, do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companys of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white, nor red was ever seen
So am’rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name,
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beautys her exceed!
Fair trees! where’er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion’s heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow:
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
