But scour’d o’er woods and mountains; none did care
    Nor could discern in what strange world they were. 
    Beyond the place, where old AEgeus mourns,
    An island lies, Phoebus none sweeter burns,
    Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore: 
    About the midst a beauteous hill, with store
    Of shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a spring
    As drowns all manly thoughts:  this place doth bring
    Venus much joy; ’t was given her deity,
    Ere blind man knew a truer god than she: 
    Of which original it yet retains
    Too much, so little goodness there remains,
    That it the vicious doth only please,
    Is by the virtuous shunn’d as a disease. 
    Here this fine Lord insulteth o’er us all
    Tied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges’ fall. 
    Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms;
    Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms: 
    Repentance swiftly following to annoy: 
    (Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy)
    All that whole valley with the echoes rung
    Of running brooks, and birds that gently sung: 
    The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green,
    Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen;
    And gliding streams amongst the tender grass,
    Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place. 
    After when winter maketh sharp the air,
    Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheer
    Enthrall low minds.  Now th’ equinox hath made
    The day t’ equal the night; and Progne had
    With her sweet sister, each their old task ta’en: 
    (Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!)
    Just in the time, and place, and in the hour
    When humble tears should earthly joys devour,
    It pleased him, whom th’ vulgar honour so,
    To triumph over me; and now I know
    What miserable servitude they prove,
    What ruin, and what death, that fall in love. 
    Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair,
    False fancies o’er the door, and on the stair
    Are slippery hopes, unprofitable gain,
    And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain,
    As who descend, may boast their fortune best;
    Who most ascend, most fall:  a wearied rest,
    And resting trouble, glorious disgrace;
    A duskish and obscure illustriousness;
    Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith,
    That nimble fury, lazy reason hath: 
    A prison, whose wide ways do all receive,
    Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave: 
    A steep descent, by which we slide with ease,
    But find no hold our crawling steps to raise: 
    Within confusion, turbulence, annoy
    Are mix’d; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy: 
    Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell;
    Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel,
    Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke: 
    He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke.