' HATH not old custom made this life more sweet 

 Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 

 More free from peril than the envious court ? 

 Here feel we not the penalty of Adam. 

 The seasons' difference, as the icy fang 

 And churlish biting of the winter's wind, 

 Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, 

 Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say 

 ' This is no flattery ' these are counsellors 

 That feelingly persuade me what I am. 



And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, 

 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

 Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 

 I would not change it." 



As You Like It. 



