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.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.