William Drummond (1746) avowed a taste which he knew to be very
unfashionable:

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan
Or the soft sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisp'rings near a prince's throne....
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath
And sighs perfum'd, which new-born flowers unfold.

Another sonnet, to a nightingale, says:

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers,
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs?

He greets Spring:

Sweet Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train