Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

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.

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

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

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

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

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.