Go, let the diving negro seek For gems, hid in some forlorn creek: We all pearls scorn Save what the dewy morn Where winds, sometimes, our woods perhaps may Congeals upon each little spire of grass, shake, Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass; And gold ne'er here appears, Save what the yellow Ceres bears. Blest silent groves, O, may you be, May pure contents Forever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these ❘ mountains! And peace still slumber by these purling fountains, Meet, when we come a-fishing here. SIR HENRY WOTTON |