THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN 
BY ANDREW MARVEL 
How vainly men themselves amaze 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 
And their incessant labours see 
Crowned from some single herb or tree, 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid; 
While all the flowers and trees do close 
To weave the garlands of Repose. 
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy companies of men: 
You sacred plants, if here below, 
Only among the plants will grow: 
Society is all but rude 
To this delicious solitude. . . . 
How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, th’ industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers! 
