The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

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.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

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.

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.