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

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.