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, Ensnared 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; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone. 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 reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers! _A. Marvell_ CXLIII _FORTUNATI NIMIUM_ Jack and Joan, they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their week-day's work, and pray Devoutly on the holy-day: Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen; Lash out at a country feast Their silver penny with the best. Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy:-- All their pleasure is, Content, And care, to pay their yearly rent. Joan can call by name her cows And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tutties make, And trim with plums a bridal cake. Jack knows what brings gain or loss, And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break, And ever thinks what he doth speak. --Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights, Though you scorn the homespun gray, And revel in your rich array; Though your tongues dissemble deep And can your heads from danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain! _T. Campion_ CXLIV _L'ALLEGRO_