THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN 



No white nor red was ever seen 



So amorous 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 beauties hers exceed ! 



Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, 



No name shall but your own be found. 



When we have run our passions' heat, 

 Love hither makes his best retreat : 

 The gods, that 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. 



What wondrous life is this I lead ! 

 Ripe apples drop about my head ; 

 The luscious clusters of the vine 

 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 

 The nectarine and curious peach 

 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 

 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 

 Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 



Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

 Withdraws into its happiness ; 

 The mind, that ocean where each kind 

 Does straight its own resemblance find ; 



