Page:Essays - Abraham Cowley (1886).djvu/55

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

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.

Ah wretched, and too solitary he
 * 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.

Oh solitude, first state of human-kind!
 * 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.