Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.