8 In a true piece of wit all things must be, Yet all things there agree:

As in the ark, joined without force or strife,
All creatures dwelt, all creatures that had life.
Or as the primitive forms of all,

If we compare great things with small,
Which without discord or confusion lie,
In that strange mirror of the Deity.

OF SOLITUDE.

1 Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian underwood!

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food
Pay with their grateful voice.

2 Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat! Ye country houses and retreat,

Which all the happy gods so love,

That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above.

3 Here Nature does a house for me erect,

Nature the fairest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise

That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

4 Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,

With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself, too, mute.

5 A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
Gilt with the sunbeams here and there,
On whose enamelled bank I'll walk,
And see how prettily they smile,
And hear how prettily they talk.

6 Ah! wretched, and too solitary he,
Who loves not his own company!
He'll feel the weight of it many a day,
Unless he calls in sin or vanity
To help to bear it away.

7 O Solitude! first state of humankind!
Which bless'd remained till man did find
Even his own helper's company:
As soon as two, alas! together joined,
The serpent made up three.

8 Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be,

Thee, sacred Solitude! alone,

Before the branchy head of number's tree
Sprang from the trunk of one;

9 Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Dost break and tame the unruly heart,

Which else would know no settled pace,
Making it move, well managed by thy art,
With swiftness and with grace.

10 Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light Dost, like a burning glass, unite,

Dost multiply the feeble heat,

And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright
And noble fires beget.

11 Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see

The monster London laugh at me;

I should at thee, too, foolish city!
If it were fit to laugh at misery;
But thy estate I pity.

12 Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou, who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A solitude almost.

THE WISH.

I.

Lest the misjudging world should chance to say

I durst not but in secret murmurs pray,

To whisper in Jove's ear

How much I wish that funeral,

Or gape at such a great one's fall;

This let all ages hear,

And future times in my soul's picture see
What I abhor, what I desire to be.

II.

I would not be a Puritan, though he
Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be

But half a quarter long ;

Though from his old mechanic trade

By vision he's a pastor made,

His faith was grown so strong;

Nay, though he think to gain salvation

By calling the Pope the Whore of Babylon.

III.

I would not be a Schoolmaster, though to him
His rods no less than Consuls' fasces seem;
Though he in many a place,

Turns Lily oftener than his gowns,

Till at the last he makes the nouns
Fight with the verbs apace;

Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat,
Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.

IV.

I would not be a Justice of Peace, though he
Can with equality divide the fee,

And stakes with his clerk draw;
Nay, though he sits upon the place
Of judgment, with a learned face
Intricate as the law;

And whilst he mulcts enormities demurely,
Breaks Priscian's head with sentences securely.

V.

I would not be a Courtier, though he
Makes his whole life the truest comedy;
Although he be a man

In whom the tailor's forming art,

And nimble barber, claim more part

Than Nature herself can ;

Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent

To put off Death too with a compliment.

VI.

From Lawyers' tongues, though they can spin with ease

The shortest cause into a paraphrase,

From Usurers' conscience

(For swallowing up young heirs so fast, Without all doubt they'll choke at last) Make me all innocence,

Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Justice! keep; For though they be not blind, they're oft asleep.

VII.

From Singing-men's religion, who are

Always at church, just like the crows, 'cause there

They build themselves a nest;

From too much poetry, which shines

With gold in nothing but its lines,

Free, O you Powers! my breast;

And from astronomy, which in the skies
Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalise.

VIII.

From your Court-madam's beauty, which doth carry

At morning May, at night a January ;

From the grave City-brow

(For though it want an R, it has

The letter of Pythagoras)

Keep me, O Fortune! now,

And chines of beef innumerable send me,

Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.

IX.

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.

Some honour I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone:

The unknown are better than ill known :

Rumour can ope the grave.

Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not from the number, but the choice of friends.

VOL. II.

E

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