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.
Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be, Thee, sacred Solitude alone; Before the branchy head of numbers Three 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 managed by thy art With swiftness and with grace.
Thou the faint beams of Reason's scattered light Dost like a burning glass unite; Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify 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.
Nam neque divitibus contingunt gaudia solis, Nec vixit male, qui natus moriensque fefellit.
God made not pleasures only for the rich, Nor have those men without their share too lived, Who both in life and death the world deceived.