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

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

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

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?