Thrice happy he, who, by some shady grove, 



Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ; 



Though solitary, who is not alone, 



But doth converse with that Eternal Love. 



Oh, how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, 



Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove, 



Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 



Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve ! 



O, how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, 



And sighs, embalmed, which new-born flowers unfold, 



Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath. 



DRUMMOND. 



