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.

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.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

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.

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.