II
Fair quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy Sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busie Companies of Men.
Your sacred Plants, if here below,
Only among the Plants will grow.
Society is all but rude
To this delicious Solitude.

III
No white nor red was ever seen*
So am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond Lovers, cruel as their Flame*
Cut in these Trees their Mistress name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these Beauties Hers exceed.
Fair Trees! where s'oe'r your barks I wound,
No Name shall but your own be found.

IV
When we have run our Passions heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The Gods, that mortal Beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that She might Laurel grow.
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a Nymph, but for a Reed.

V
What wond'rous Life in this I lead!
Ripe Apples drop about my head;
The Luscious Clusters of the Vine
Upon my Mouth do crush their Wine;
The Nectaren, and curious Peach,*
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on Melons, as I pass,
Insnar'd with Flow'rs, I fall on Grass.

VI
Mean while 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.*

VII
Here at the Fountains sliding foot,
Or at some Fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the Bodies Vest aside,*
My Soul into the bough does glide:
There like a Bird it sits, and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver Wings;*
And, till prepar'd for longer flight,
Waves in its Plumes the various Light.

VIII
Such was that happy Garden-state,
While Man there walk'd without a Mate:
After a Place so pure, so 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.

IX
How well the skillful Gardner drew
Of flow'rs 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 flow'rs!