How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

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.

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

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

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

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?