The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

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

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

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

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.