Who Loves A Garden Loves A Greenhouse

All Constraint, / Except What Wisdom Lays On Evil Men, / Is Evil.

And Diff'ring Judgments Serve But To Declare That Truth Lies Somewhere, If We Knew But Where.

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

Thieves At Home Must Hang; But He That Puts Into His Overgorged And Bloated Purse The Wealth Of Indian Provinces, Escapes.

Not A Flower But Shows Some Touch, In Freckle, Streak Or Stain, Of His Unrivall'd Pencil. He Inspires Their Balmy Odors, And Imparts Their Hues, And Bathes Their Eyes With Nectar, And Includes In Grains As Countless As The Seaside Sands, The Forms With Which He Sprinkles All The Earth Happy Who Walks With Him!