Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.