Brook! Whose Society The Poet Seeks, Intent His Wasted Spirits To Renew; And Whom The Curious Painter Doth Pursue Through Rocky Passes, Among Flowery Creeks, And Tracks Thee Dancing Down Thy Water-Breaks; If Wish Were Mine Some Type Of Thee To View, Thee, And Not Thee Thyself, I Would Not Do Like Grecian Artists, Give Thee Human Cheeks, Channels For Tears; No Naiad Should'St Thou Be, Have Neither Limbs, Feet, Feathers, Joints Nor Hairs: It Seems The Eternal Soul Is Clothed In Thee With Purer Robes Than Those Of Flesh And Blood, And Hath Bestowed On Thee A Safer Good; Unwearied Joy, And Life Without Its Cares.