Solitude. To his dear Brother, Mr. Ash Wyndham

O Corydon! how I hug my self to think!
When in this troubled Sea the World,
All thrust into the Main,
Till by a Hurricane,
Through the Abyss with Vengeance hurl'd,
With horrible Adieus they parting sink.

Whilst I upon the silent shore, secure,
Fear neither stormy Wind nor Tide,
With elevated Soul,
Can move from Pole to Pole,
And through the aery Regions glide,
Need only pity what they must endure.

The World will take no notice of my Name;
Well then I'll let th' Impostor see
I have my Passions broke,
Brought Pride to wear a Yoke,
I'm as Indifferent as she;
No—I will never stop her Trump of Fame.

That cursed word the World blisters my Tongue,
It breaths out all the Plagues of Hell;
'Tis Nonsence intricate,
Unintelligible state,
That puzzles all my Brains to spell,
If I guess right, Man's Dust the World is Dung.

I never could any Contexture find,
Confusion only is her course,
Her Joys but pleasant Fictions,
A Mass of Contradictions,
All Guilt, all Trouble and Remorse;
This is the World, or she or I am blind.

She never yet was in true Colours drawn;
All, Disappointments, Pains, and Fears,
One Scene of Misery,
Constant Inconstancy,
Tempestuous World, a Vale of Tears,
For our chief Happiness Chance the only Pawn.

Passions, and Discontents, and Jealousies,
Publick War, and Domestick Strife,
Perjury and Deceit,
This Gall confounds the Sweet,
And poisons all the Joys of Life;
And our vains Hopes must end in penitential Sighs.

Oh! I am sick, and my head giddy turns,
The thoughts of noise I cannot bear,
Impertinence strikes me through,
Business that kills me too,
Death is less terrible than Care;
To get from this Fools Paradise my heart burns.

Who would not then with us, dear Friend, retire?
Accept the happiness to shroud
Under a shady Screen,
To walk along unseen,
Wrapt like Aeneas in a Cloud,
And see the World, as he did Troy, on fire.

'Tis more than time, my Soul, that we were gone,
Delay, my Corydon, does us wrong;
The World will grow more bold,
Still loth to quit her hold,
For her Temptations they are strong.
Come then and put blind Pluto's Helmet on.

—What a fair prospect now have we!
Can undisturb'd together stand,
Enjoy our selves, and all
The World her goods can call,
And touch the Globe but with our hand,
And all things past, present, and future see.

Here at Earth's puff'd up Bubbles we can smile,
Her fucus'd Vanities despise,
Divert with pleasant Chat,
Discourse of this or that,
Still aiming to be truly wise,
With Books, or harmless sport, the time beguile.

Full of our selves, what can we wish for more?
We find us work enough, to tend
The habit of our Soul,
Our Passions to controul,
To do the Duties of a Friend,
'Tis the mistaken World, not we, are poor.

Here in an empty Theater we sit,
Retir'd to keep our Holy-day,
Our Minds the Scenes must be,
The Critical Spectators we,
Of one anothers Life, the Play,
The Authors and the Judges of our Wit.

If we have acted well in Heaven's sight,
What thô we hear no ecchoing Stage?
Or when our State we change,
What thô our names seem strange,
Unknown to a succeeding Age?
Without that Witness happy Democrite!

Why should we Fame, that treacherous Idol, court?
That sets us up for Envy's Mark,
That burns us with the Rays
Of undeserved Praise,
Only to blind us in the dark,
To throw us down again, for fear or sport.

Fame's breath is short, when she must trumpet loud:
'Tis seldom that she comes alone;
She's an unconstant Guest,
That loves to change her Nest,
True Worth, true Praise would not be known.
The Sun looks brightest through a silver Cloud.

On an embroider'd Bank here we can pick and chuse
An unbought, savory, wholsome Dish,
On Leaves serve up our Fare,
Perfum'd with the sweet Air:
Then Corydon! to compleat our Wish,
Our Recreation, Friendship, and a Muse.

Sometimes we take a pride to stand and see
Bees bring their yellow Harvest home,
Unload their swelling Thighs,
And as their Goddess wise,
Spin it into their Hony-comb.
Happy Spectators! happy Rivals we!

Sometimes upon a Downy Couch of Grass,
On Flowery Cushions stretcht we lie,
To hear a dying Swan,
More sensible than Man,
Warble forth a sweet Elegy:
Or in soft Tunes the purling Rivers pass.

Or else dissolv'd in Ease, lay down our heads
In Slumbers as our Natures kind,
Bound in each others Arms
By Virtue's strictest Charms,
Lull'd asleep by the whistling Wind,
On easie Velvet, fragrant Violet-beds.

The name Diogenes justly none can give,
Nor churlish call our Innocence:
With Solitude thus crown'd,
What Firebrand can be found?
Unless our Happiness give offence:
For in the World, as out of it, we live.

Sometimes hear Eccho her Misfortunes tell,
See how she'll watch the lovly Boy
Narcissus, as he looks
Into the Crystal Brooks:
Her vocal Reparties enjoy;
Or the melodious Notes of Philomel.

Sometimes in shady Groves together walk,
And satisfy'd with humble Sights,
See Art and Nature both digest
In Milton, Waller, and the rest:
Full and unparallel'd Delights!
Of Love and Solitude divinely talk.

Each Dryad that is worthy of the Wound,
Each Tree that's worthy of the Mark,
Our mutual Friendship know,
Under our Auspice grow,
Thyrsis and Corydon on the Bark,
Thyrsis and Corydon the Woods resound.

But above all, the Ash aspiring shoots,
Thy Badge of Honour proud to wear;
The Ash, a Tree for Jove,
The Ash, it self a Grove,
Proud thy Name in hers to bear,
She nods her trembling Head, and strouts her swelling Roots.

The Nymphs here take their rounds, and dance, and play;
The Hamadryads at us peep;
Crocus and Hyacinth, some bring,
Daisies, the Maidenhead of the Spring:
Others behind us softly creep,
And steal our Songs and Pastorals away.

When our light hearts are for a looser Rein,
To Banquets we our selves invite,
Consorts of Musick and of Love,
Ambrosia from above;
Verses for second Course recite,
And with alternate Trifles entertain.

Or we converse with Garden Mysteries,
See the emulous Roses blast;
The loving Ivy twine;
The Wall cling to the Vine;
And Flora taking her repast:
Adam might envy in his Paradise.

And thus withdrawn from business, noise, and strife,
We double our few fleeting days,
And when together fled,
Fate having cut our Thread,
Were we sent back into this Maze,
We'd act but the same Scene, our former life.