Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.