For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.

Then came October, full of merry glee.

For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.

The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.

The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.

All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.

Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine,the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, The builder oak, sole king of forests all, The aspin good for staves, the cypress funeral, The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage, the fir that weepest still, The yew obedient to the bender's will, The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill, The myrrh sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, The fruitful olive, and the platane round, The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound.