" 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' difierence, — 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. 



