Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.