brows. 
    Thanks for your rest, ye mossy banks,
    And unto you, cool zephyrs, thanks,
    Who, as my hair, my thoughts too shed,
    And winnow from the chaff my head!

    How safe, methinks, and strong behind
    These trees, have I encamped my mind,
    Where beauty, aiming at the heart,
    Bends in some tree its useless dart,
    And where the world no certain shot
    Can make, or me it toucheth not,
    But I on it securely play
    And gall its horsemen all the day. 
    Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines
    Curl me about, ye gadding vines,
    And oh so close your circles lace,
    That I may never leave this place! 
    But, lest your fetters prove too weak,
    Ere I your silken bondage break,
    Do you, O brambles, chain me too,
    And, courteous briars, nail me through!

    Oh what a pleasure ’tis to hedge
    My temples here with heavy sedge,
    Abandoning my lazy side,
    Stretched as a bank unto the tide,
    Or to suspend my sliding foot
    On the osier’s undermined root,
    And in its branches tough to hang,
    While at my lines the fishes twang? 
    But now away, my hooks, my quills,
    And angles, idle utensils! 
    The young MARIA walks to-night;

    ’Tis she that to these gardens gave
    That wondrous beauty which they have;
    She straightness on the woods bestows;
    To her the meadow sweetness owes;
    Nothing could make the river be
    So crystal pure, but only she,
    She yet more pure, sweet, straight, and fair
    Than gardens, woods, meads, rivers are.

    This ’tis to have been from the first
    In a domestic heaven nursed,
    Under the discipline severe
    Of FAIRFAX, and the starry VERE;
    Where not one object can come nigh
    But pure, and spotless as the eye,
    And goodness doth itself entail
    On females, if there want a male.”

This poem, having a biographical value, I have quoted at, perhaps, too great length.  Other poems of this garden-period of Marvell’s life are better known.  His own English version of his Latin poem Hortus contains lovely stanzas:—­

    “How vainly men themselves amaze
    To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
    And their uncessant labours see
    Crowned from some single herb or tree,
    Whose short and narrow-verged shade
    Does prudently their toils upbraid;
    While all the flowers and trees do close,
    To weave the garlands of Repose!

    Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
    And Innocence, thy sister dear? 
    Mistaken long, I sought you then
    In busy companies of men. 
    Your sacred plants, if here below,
    Only among the plants will grow;
    Society is all but rude
    To this delicious solitude.

    No white nor red was ever seen
    So amorous as this lovely green.