Laudator Temporis Acti

John Rawlet (1642–1686), "On Solitude," in his Poetick Miscellanies (London: Printed for Samuel Tidmarsh, 1687), pp. 59-67:

        I.

Welcome sweet Solitude, who loves not thee
    Loves not himself; for only he
    Who from the busie throng is quit,
He to retire into himself is free,
    He with himself may sit.

        II.

Than our Dear self is any thing more Dear?
    Shall we then seem to hate or fear
    What most we love? yet so do they
Who rather had be rambling here, and there,
    Than with themselves to stay.

        III.

Some hideous frightful thing there is within,
    Even a consciousness of Sin:
    That if alone doth them affright;
Which to torment them when it doth begin,
    Straightway they take their flight.

        IV.

Even from themselves poor Men they strive to fly;
    Thrust into vicious Company,
    There hoping for a little Peace
From Noise, from Sport, from Riot, and thereby
    Their Torments they increase.

        V.

Who weary of himself, himself still flies,
    And Vice for a diversion tries;
    Hence greater weariness shall feel:
The Plaister which his folly doth devise,
    Wounds worse than did the Steel.

        VI.

Thus the Slave loaden with his Guilt and Chain,
    From Prison breaks, but not from pain;
    His Irons gall him in the road,
Untill at last he's hurried back again
    To feel a double Load.

        VII.

Thus in the numerous herd, the wounded Hart
    Would shroud himself, but still the Dart
    Sticks in his Flesh, widens his Wound;
He cannot in the Croud shake off his smart,
    Nor scape the following Hound.

        VIII.

Then welcome, Solitude, abhor'd by none,
    But fools and vicious Men alone;
    Whilst courted by the Wise and Good,
Who by Fruition have its blessings known,
    Its pleasure's understood.

        IX.

Whilst they hither, from the World remove,
    In all that's Good they do improve,
    And here where nothing can annoy,
Rendring themselves worthy of their own love,
    Themselves they do enjoy.

        X.

Wearied with Noise and Hurry here, we have
    The Rest and Silence of a Grave;
    The Mind too freed from stir and noise,
Begins to feel what pious minds most crave,
    Foretasts of Heavenly joyes.

        XI.

The Moon from view retir'd, receives most light
    From Heaven, and Heaven-ward shines most bright:
    But what time we her Full do call,
When she comes forth expos'd to common sight,
    'Tis then Eclipses fall.

        XII.

Here Virtue's fixt, which justling Crouds did shake,
    Here it doth Sanctuary take,
    When Lusts and Passions it pursue;
Here gathering strength, doth brave resistance make,
    And all her Foes subdue.

        XIII.

The mind exhausted by the multitude,
    Here hath its strength renew'd;
    Like Fields opprest by constant Plough,
It doth when Fallow laid in Solitude,
    More Rich and Fertile grow.

        XIV.

They who from others seem the most recluse,
    For others Good most Fruit produce;
    Who labour under Ground, there find
The Gold which after serves for common use,
    And doth enrich Mankind.

        XV.

Rich Streams of Blessings from the Hermits cell
    O'reflow the World, which none can tell
    From whence they flow, but like some Fountain,
Unknown as th' head of Nile, he oft doth dwell
    In the obscurer Mountain.

        XVI.

The learned tribe whose works the World do bless,
    Finish those works in some recess;
    Both the Philosopher and Divine,
And Poets most who still make their address
    In private to the Nine.

        XVII.

Thus on the Banks of Thames great Cowley chose
    His private Chertsey for repose;
    Cowley whose Verse like those rich streams,
So deep, as clear, in various numbers flows,
    And long shall last as Thames.

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