The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

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.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.