OF SOLITUDE.
53
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself too mute.
V.
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.
VI.
Who loves not his own company!
He'll feel the weight of't many a day,
Unless he call in sin or vanity
To help to bear't away.
VII.
Which blest remained till man did find
Even his own helper's company.
As soon as two, alas, together joined,
The serpent made up three.
