We shift our Chambers and our Homes
To dwell where Trouble never comes:
has left the City Croud,
Against the Court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the Woods; a Hermit-Saint!
She loaths her Patches, Pins, and Paint,
Dear Diamonds from her Neck are torn:
But HUMOUR, that Eternal Thorn
Sticks in her Heart: She's hurry'd still
'Twixt her Wild Passions and her Will:
Haunted and hagg'd where're she roves
By purling Streams, and silent Groves,
Or with her Furies, or her Loves.