Fair trees! Whereso'er your barks I wound،

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat

Love hither makes his best retreat;

The gods، who 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.

What wondrous life is this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head;

The luscius clusters of the vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

The nectarine and curious peach

Into my hands themselves do reach;

Stumbling on melons، as I pass،

Ensnared with flowersi I fall on grass،

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less

Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind، that ocean where each kind

Does straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it createsi transcending these،