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.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

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

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

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

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

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!