The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.

Virtue Hath No Tongue To Check Vice's Pride.

And Live Like Nature's Bastards, Not Her Sons.

Live While Ye May, Yet Happy Pair.

Thus With The Year Seasons Return; But Not To Me Returns Day, Or The Sweet Approach Of Even Or Morn, Or Sight Of Vernal Bloom Or Summer's Rose, Or Flocks, Or Herds, Or Human Face Divine; But Cloud Instead, And Ever-during Dark Surrounds Me; From The Cheerful Ways Of Men Cut Off, And For The Book Of Knowledge Fair Presented With A Universal Blank Of Nature's Works, To Me Expung'd And Raz'd, And Wisdom At One Entrance Quite Shut Out.