Now, My Co-Mates And Brothers In Exile
Now,
my
co-mates
and
brothers
in
exile,
Hath
not
old
customs
make
this
life
more
sweet
Than
that
of
painted
pomp?
Are
not
these
woods
More
free
from
peril
than
the
envious
court!
Here
feel
we
not
the
penalty
of
Adam,
The
seasons
difference;
as
the
icy
fang
And
churlish
chiding
of
the
winters
wind,
Which
when
it
bites
and
blows
upon
my
body,
Even
till
I
shrink
with
cold,
I
smile
and
say
This
is
no
flattery;
these
are
counsellors
That
feelingly
persuade
me
what
I
am.
Sweet
are
the
uses
of
adversity;
Which,
like
the
toad,
ugly
and
venomous,
Wears
yet
a
precious
jewel
in
his
head;
And
this
our
life,
exempt
from
public
haunt,
Finds
tongues
in
trees,
books
in
the
running
brooks,
Sermons
in
stones,
and
good
in
everything.
I
would
not
change
it.
