IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Since it equally does flee, 

 Let the motion pleasant be. 

 Why do precious ointments shower, 

 Nobler wines why do we pour, 

 Beauteous flowers why do we spread, 

 Upon the monuments of the dead? 

 Nothing they but dust can show, 

 Or bones that hasten to be so. 

 Crown me with roses whilst I live, 

 Now your wines -and ointments give. 

 After death I nothing crave, 

 Let me alive my pleasures have, 

 All are Stoics in the grave. 



A. COWLEY. 



The Wish 



Well then; I now do plainly see, 

 This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; 

 The very honey of all earthly joy 



Does of all meats the soonest cloy 



And they, methinks, deserve my pity, 

 Who for it can endure the stings, 

 The crowd, and buz, and murmurings 



Of this great hive, the city. 



[44] 



