Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.