Classic Poem

Thrise happie hee, who by some shadie groue,
Farre from the clamarous world doth liue his owne,
Though solitare, yet who is not alone,
But doth conuerse with that eternall loue.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious mone,
Or the soft sobbings of the widow'd doue,
Than those smoothe whisp'rings neare a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtfull, doe the euill approue?
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs perfum'd, which doe the flowres vnfold,
Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath?
How sweete are streames to poyson drunke in gold?
The world is full of horrours, falshoods, slights;
Woods' silent shades have only true delights.