Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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.