Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.