Grant me, ye gods, the life I love,
And lead me to a shady grove;
There let the trees' verdant hair 
Sport with each kind blast of air.
Let birds. The choristers of the wool,
Sing all that's pleasant, all that's good;
Make some liquid silver stream
In soft whisp'ring court the plain;
And let me here flowers behold,
Fringing its banks with native gold.
Then tell, ye gods, tell if ye can,
What prince, what great unhappy man,
Would not thus a cell prefer,
And choose to live an hermit here!