Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
