Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

Grab your pig's feet, bread, and gin, there's plenty in the kitchen. I wonder what the poor people are eating tonight?

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.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.