Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.