Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister

I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.

Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

There is music in all things, if men had ears.