Grant me, ye Gods

Grant me, ye gods, the life I love,

And lead me to a shady grove;

There let the trees' verdant hair

Sport with each kind blast of air.

Let birds. The choristers of the wool,

Sing all that's pleasant, all that's good;

Make some liquid silver stream

In soft whisp'ring court the plain;

And let me here flowers behold,

Fringing its banks with native gold.

Then tell, ye gods, tell if ye can,

What prince, what great unhappy man,

Would not thus a cell prefer,

And choose to live an hermit here!