All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

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.

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

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

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.

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