  Happy were he could finish forth his fate In some unhaunted desert, where, obscure From all society, from love and hate Of worldly folk, there should he sleep secure; Then wake again, and yield God ever praise; Content with hip, with haws, and brambleberry; In contemplation passing still his days, And change of holy thoughts to make him merry: Who, when he dies, his tomb might be the bush Where harmless robin resteth with the thrush: —Happy were he! R. Devereux, Earl of Essex |
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