Hark, hither, reader! wouldst thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wouldst see a man all his own wealth,
His own physic, his own health?
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well—
Her garments, that upon her sit
As garments should do, close and fit;
A well-clothed soul, that's not oppressed
Nor choked with what she should be dressed;
A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine;
A soul whose intellectual beams
No mists do mask, no lazy steams;
A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven hath a summer's day?
In sum, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours
Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers.
And, when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends:—
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away?
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark, hither! and—thyself be he!
—
