Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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.