IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



The Garden 



Now vainly men themselves amaze, 

 To win the palm, the oak, or bays; 

 And their incessant labours see 

 Crowned from some single herb, or tree, 

 Whose short and narrow-verged shade 

 Does prudently their toils upbraid; 

 While all the flowers 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 companies 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 amorous as this lovely green. 

 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 

 Cut in these trees their mistress' name: 



[40] 



