Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

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

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

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.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.