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

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

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

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

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.