To the garden, Whose western side, circummured with brick, Is with a vinyard back’d. To that vinyard is a planchéd gate That makes his opening by a little door Which from the garden to the vinyard leads.

And since this life our nonage is, / And we in wardship to Thine angels be, / Native in heaven's fair palaces / Where we shall be but denizen'd by Thee;

The Spring whence thou [Hugh Myddelton] deduced'st the ample stream, / The Poet's and Historian's theme, / Trenching thy mighty aqueduct a way, / 'Till as the humble plains, the aspiring hills obey.

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