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

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

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

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

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

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

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