The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.