"Abused mortals, did you know 

 Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, 



You'd scorn proud towers, 



And seek them in these bowers ; 

 Where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, 

 But blustering care could never tempest make, 



Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us, 



Saving of fountains that glide by us. 



" Blest silent groves, oh may you be 

 For ever mirth's best nursery! 

 May pure contents 

 For ever pitch their tents 

 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains, 

 And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, 

 Which we may every year 

 Meet when we come a-fishing here." 



Walton. 



