APPENDIX. 
207 
When we have run our passion’s heat, 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 
The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race. 
Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow; 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
What wondrous life is this I lead! 
Ripe apples drop about my head; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 
The nectarine, and curious peach, 
Into my hands themselves do reach; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
Withdraws into its happiness; 
The mind, that ocean where each kind 
Does straight its own resemblance find; 
Yet it creates, transcending these, 
Far other worlds and other seas, 
Annihilating all that’s made 
To a green thought in a green shade. 
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, 
Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, 
Casting the body’s vest aside, 
My soul into the boughs does glide; 
