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

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

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.

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

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

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

And keeps the palace of the soul.