Among other points of moralising reflection which the sight of this tête-à-tête produced, Charlotte could not but think of the extreme difficulty which secret lovers must have in finding a proper spot for their stolen interviews. Here perhaps they had thought themselves so perfectly secure from observation; the whole field open before them, a steep bank and pales never crossed by the foot of man at their back, and a great thickness of air to aid them as well! Yet here she had seen them. They were really ill-used.

It was impossible not to feel him hardly used: to be obliged to stand back in his own house and see the best place by the fire constantly occupied by Sir Harry Denham.

Lady Denham can give, if she is properly attacked

Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,A cottage, whither oft we since repair:’Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but closeEnvironed with a ring of branching elmsThat overhang the thatch, itself unseenPeeps at the vale below; so thick besetWithfoliage of such dark redundant growth,I called the low-roofed lodge thepeasant’s nest.And hidden as it is, and far remoteFrom such unpleasing sounds as haunt the earIn village or in town, the bay of cursIncessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.Here, I have said, at least I should possessThe poet’s treasure, silence, and indulgeThe dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.

Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreatDearly obtains the refuge it affords.Its elevated site forbids the wretchTo drink sweet waters of the crystal well;He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waitsDependent on the baker’s punctual call,To hear his creaking panniers at the door,Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.So farewell envy of thepeasant’s nest.If solitude make scant the means of life,Society for me!Thou seeming sweet,Be still a pleasing object in my view,My visit still, but never mine abode.

William Cowper, from Book I of The Task(1785)Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thoughtDevised the weather-house, that useful toy!Fearless of humid air and gathering rainsForth steps the man—an emblem of myself!More delicate his timorous mate retires.When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,The task of new discoveries falls on me.At such a season and with such a charge