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Now, traveller, enter,
Hofwijck garden will be accounted for.
Have patience, I will report the very least,
And not hold still about the very most.
Thereupon must the audience rely:
Never does a planter tire of travelling his own land,
Or talking of his own land, muttering about his own land;
When it rains that it pours, he thinks it's a bit damp,
When it's damp, the weather is sweet,
when it storms it is but cool,
And, he who harbours this lust, does not feel nought.
(Hofwijck poem, lines 957-964)
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