Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.