His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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.
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.