The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.