Leisure is Wisdom's nurse and Virtue's child; Her home she buildeth amid sylvan nooks, By hedgerow paths, or 'mid the leafy brooks Wandereth at will, — hymning her wood-notes wild. Within her cheerful memory she hath pil'd Rich thoughts, that tell of pictures, and of books! And absent friends — with calm and beautiful looks, Of worldly cares she walketh undefil'd, In cities too, or 'mid suburban shade; At mask, or theatre, with flowers and wine, Holding her lyre, moveth this gentle maid; Nor seldom seen, when evening embers shine On he cheerful hearth — in musing slumber laid; Such was sweet Shakespeare's friend, and such is thine.
