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

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

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

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.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.