My Heart Contains Of Good,

Good, The More Communicated, More Abundant Grows.

I Must Not Quarrel With The Will Of Highest Dispensation, Which Herein, Haply Had Ends Above My Reach To Know.

And May At Last My Weary Age Find Out The Peaceful Hermitage, The Hairy Gown And Mossy Cell, Where I May Sit And Rightly Spell Of Every Star That Heaven Doth Shew, And Every Herb That Sips The Dew, Till Old Experience To Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

Herbs, And Other Country Messes, Which The Neat-handed Phillis Dresses.

And Feel That I Am Happier Than I Know.