He Nothing Common Did, Or

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head.

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.

Though I Carry Always Some Ill-nature About Me, Yet It Is, I Hope, No More Than Is In This World Necessary For A Preservative.

My Mind Was Once The True Survey Of All These Meadows Fresh And Gay; And In The Greenness Of The Grass Did See Its Hopes As In A Glass.