With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.