All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

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

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.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

And keeps the palace of the soul.