Abraham Cowley

Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye Plebeian under wood!
Where the Poetique Birds rejoyce,
And for their quiet Nests and plenteous Food
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muses richest Mannor Seat!
Ye Countrey Houses and Retreat.
Which all the happy Gods so Love,
That for you oft they quit their Bright and Great
Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a House for me erect,
Nature the wisest Architect,
Who those fond Artists does despise
That can the fair and living Trees neglect,
Yet the Dead Timber prize.

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.

A Silver stream shall roul his waters near,
Guilt with the Sun-beams here and there
On whose enamel'd Bank I'll walk,
And see how prettily they Smile, and hear
How prettily they Talk.

Ah wretched, and too Solitary Hee
Who loves not his own Company!
He'l feel the weight of't many a day,
Unless he call in Sin or Vanity
To help to bear't away.

Oh Solitude, first state of Human-kind!
Which blest remain'd till man did find
Even his own helpers Company.
As soon as two (alas!) together joyn'd,
The Serpent made up Three.

Though God himself, through countless Ages Thee
His sole Companion chose to be,
Thee, sacred Solitude alone,
Before the branchy head of Numbers Tree
Sprang from the Trunk of One.

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)
Dost break and tame th' unruly heart,
Which else would know no settled pace
Making it move, well mannag'd by thy Art
With Swiftness and with Grace.

Thou the faint beams of Reasons scatter'd Light,
Dost like a Burning-glass unite,
Dost multiply the feeble Heat,
And fortifie the strength; till thou dost bright
And noble Fires beget.

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.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And the Fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou, who dost thy Millions boast,
A Village less than Islington wilt grow,
A Solitude almost.