Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.