Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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.