How Fit He Is To Sway That

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head; The Luscious Clusters Of The Vine Upon My Mouth Do Crush Their Wine; The Nectarine And Curious Peach Into My Hands Themselves Do Reach; Stumbling On Melons, As I Pass, Ensnared With Flowers, I Fall On Grass.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.

I Have A Garden Of My Own, But So With Roses Overgrown, And Lilies, That You Would It Guess To Be A Little Wilderness.

How Could Such Sweet And Wholesome Hours Be Reckoned, But In Herbs And Flowers?

Art Indeed Is Long, But Life Is Short.