I am going to my own hearth-stone, / Bosomed in yon green hills alone,

But afterwards she gan him soft to shrieve, And wooe with fair intreatie, to disclose Which of the nymphes his heart so sore did mieve:

I prefer tea to coffee.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world / Like one great garden show'd, / And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, / Rare sunrise flow'd.