All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.