Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! 
      Hail ye plebeian underwood! 
      Where the poetic birds rejoice,
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food
      Pay, with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muses richest manor seat 
      Ye country houses and retreat, 
      Which all the happy Gods so love,
That for you oft they quit their bright and great 
      Metropolis above.

Here Nature docs a house for me erect, 
     Nature the wisest architect, 
   Who those fond artists does despise, 
That can the fair and living trees neglect ; 
      Yet the dead timber prize. 

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, 
      Hear the soft winds, above me flying, 
      With all their wanton boughs dispute, 
And the more tuneful birds to both replying, 
      Nor be myself, too, mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near, 
      Gilt with the sun-beams here and there, 
      On whose enamell'd bank I'll walk, 
And see how prettily they smile, and hear 
      How prettily they talk. 

Ah wretched and too solitary he,
      Who loves not his own company!
      He'll feel the weight of't many a day,
Unless he call in sin or vanity
      To help to bear't away.