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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,
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