Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
