No lurking shadows here appear;
The weaving spider comes not here;
Here, if the solemn Owl doth sit,
‘Tis but above the tapers lit,
To blink at wisdom’s shinning wit.
The skies are blue, the winds are fair,
Nor place nor space for tyrant care
Within the bounds, Bohemia.
Lo! gold is much, but ‘tis not all-
Too oft a lure the soul to thrall;