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

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

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

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

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.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

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