Wild above rule or art, enormous bliss.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?-thus leave Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades?

Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?

Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.