Let Zephyr only breathe And with her tresses play.

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world; doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love.

He lives who dies to win a lasting name.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winter's past or coming void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers.

God never had a church but there, men say, The devil a chapel hath raised by some wiles, I doubted of this saw, till on a day I westward spied great Edinburgh's Saint Giles.

Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.