354 COTTON'S IRREGULAR STANZAS. 



IV. 



Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend, 



That man acquainted with himself dost make, 



And, all his Maker's wonders to entend, 



With thee I here converse at will, 



And would be glad to do so still, 



For, it is thou alone, that keep'st the soul awake. 



How calm, and quiet a delight, 



Is it, alone 

 To read, and meditate, and write ; 



By none off ended, and offending none ? 

 To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease ! 

 And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. 



vr. 



Oh, my beloved Nymph ! fair Dove ! 

 Princess of Rivers ! how I love 



Upon thy flowery banks to lie, 

 And view thy silver stream, 

 When gilded by a summer's beam ! 



And in it, all thy wanton fry, 



Playing at liberty : 

 And, with my angle upon them, 



The all of treachery 



I ever learn'd industriously to try. 



VII. 



Such streams, Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, 



The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po : 



The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, 



Are puddle-water all, compared with thine : 



And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 



With thine much purer to compare ; 



The rapid Garonne, and the winding Seine, 



Are both too mean, 



Beloved Dove, with thee 



To vie priority ; 



Nay, Thame and Isis when conjoin' d, submit, 



And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 



