From "The Moorhens Nest"

I hate the plough that comes to disarray
Her holiday delights—and labours toil
Seems vulgar curses on the sunny soil
And man the only object that distrains
Earths garden into deserts for his gains
Leave him his schemes of gain—tis wealth to me
Wild heaths to trace—and note their broken tree
Which lightening shivered—and which nature tries
To keep alive for poetry to prize
Upon whose mossy roots my leisure sits
To hear the birds pipe oer their amorous fits.