Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.