If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.