Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

Is there no Latin word for Tea? Upon my soul, if I had known that I would have let the vulgar stuff alone