Brook whose

Brook, whose society the Poet seeksIntent his wasted spirits to renew;And whom the curious Painter doth pursueThrough rocky passes, among flowery creeks,And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;If I some type of thee did wish to view,Thee,—and not thee thyself, I would not doLike 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 theeWith purer robes than those of flesh and blood,And hath bestowed on thee a better good;Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.