Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.