knew: 
He saw his parents, saw his fav’rite maid,
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay’d;
And thus excited, in his bosom rose
A wish so strong, it baffled his repose: 
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die. 
He then described the gloom, the dread he found,
When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear’d,
And how confused and troubled all appear’d;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ’d,
All views in future blighted and destroy’d: 
His were a medley of be wild’ring themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams. 
   Here his relation closes, but his mind
Flies back again some resting-place to find;
Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees
His children sporting by those lofty trees,
Their mother singing in the shady scene,
Where the fresh springs burst o’er the lively green; —
So strong his eager fancy, he affrights
The faithful widow by its powerful flights;
For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,
And cry—­“’Tis she, my wife! my Isabel! 
Where are my children?”—­Judith grieves to hear
How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,
Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch’d by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes. 
   ’Tis now her office; her attention see! 
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen’s feet. 
   And where is he?  Ah! doubtless in those scenes
Of his best days, amid the vivid greens. 
Fresh with unnumber’d rills, where ev’ry gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb’ring vale. 
Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes
The night-bird’s music from the thick’ning glooms? 
And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,
Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly,
When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by? 
This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is list’ning to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys: 
All this he feels, a dream’s delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this. 
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy
For she can fully of their nature deem —
But see! he breaks the long protracted theme,
And wakes, and cries—­“My God! ’twas but a dream.”

TALE III.

THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

                           Pause then,

And weigh thy value with an even hand;
If thou beest rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough. 
      Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice.

Because I will not do them wrong to mistrust any,

I will do myself the right to trust none:  and the fine is (for which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor. 
                            Much Ado about Nothing.