I 've often wish'd that I had clear,

For life, six hundred pounds a year;

A handsome house to lodge a friend;

A river at my garden's end;

A terrace walk, and half a rood

Of land set out to plant a wood.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745): Imitation of Horace, Book ii. Sat. 6.

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,

Some boundless contiguity of shade,

Where rumour of oppression and deceit,

Of unsuccessful or successful war,

Might never reach me more.

William Cowper (1731-1800): The Task. Book ii. The Timepiece. Line 1.

Soul of the age,

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,

My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by

Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further, to make thee a room.

Ben Jonson (1573-1637): To the Memory of Shakespeare.