A fair girl tripping out to meet her love, Trimmed in her best, fresh as a clover bud. An old crone leaning at an ember’d fire, Short-breath’d in sig… - John Warren, 3rd Baron de Tabley

Thou felon anchorite of pain
Who sittest in a world of slain.

Sweet are the ways of death to weary feet, Calm are the shades of men.
The phantom fears no tyrant in his seat, The slave is master then.Love is abolish’d; well, that this is so; We knew him best as Pain.
The gods are all cast out, and let them go! Who ever found them gain?Ready to hurt and slow to succour these; So, while thou breathest, pray.
But in the sepulchre all flesh has peace; Their hand is put away.

Arcadian spaces of great grass arise; Crisp lambs are merry: hoary vales are laid,
Studded with roe-deer and wild straw-berries: In one a shepherd tabours, near a maid,Who teazes at the button of his cloak, Where rarely underneath them grows the herb;
A squirrel eyes the lovers from an oak, And speckled horses pasture without curb.In a fair meadow set with tulip heads; A water-mill rolls little crested falls
Of olive torrent, broken in grey threads, A grave-yard crowds black crosses in square walls.Quaint pastoral Arcadia, where are set Thy rainy lands and reddish underwoods?
Earth hath not held thy fabled sunsets yet, Though lovers build their palace on thy roods.