BOOKOFOLD-WORLDGARDENS 



Garden Everywhere else their fatal power we see, 

 minstrelsy They make and mle man , g wretched des tiny 



They neither set, nor disappear, 



But tyrannize o'er all the year; 

 Whilstwe ne'er feel their flame or infl uence here. 



The birds thatdance frombough tobough, 



And sing above in every tree, 



Are not from fears and cares more free, 

 Than we, who lie, or sit or walk below, 



And should by right be singers too. 

 What princes choir of music can excel 



That, which within this shade does dwell? 



To which we nothing pay or give; 



They, like all other poets live, 

 Without reward, or thanks for their obliging 

 pains ; 



'Tis well, if they become not prey : 

 The whistling winds add their less artful strains, 

 And a grave base the murmuring fountains 



play; 

 Nature does all this harmony bestow, 



But to our plants, art's music too, 

 The pipe, theorbo, and guitar we owe; 

 The lute itself, which once was green and mute, 



When Orpheus strook th' inspired lute, 



The trees danc'd round, and understood 



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