Page:The Maid's Tragedy Altered - Waller (1690).djvu/72

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POEMS
Of her own growth hath all that Nature craves;And all that's rare, as Tribute from the Waves.As Egypt does not on the Clouds rely,But to her Nile owes more than to the Sky:So whatsoe're our Earth and Heav'n denies,Our ever constant Friend the Sea supplies.The taste of hot Arabia's Spice we know,Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow.Without that heat, in Persian Silk we shine;And without Planting, drink of every Vine.To dig for Wealth we weary not our Limbs;Gold, tho the heaviest Mettal, hither swims.Ours is the Harvest, where the Indians mow;We plow the Deep, and reap what others sow.Things of the noblest kind our own Soil breeds;Stout are our Men, and Warlike are our Steeds.Rome, tho her Eagle thro' the World had flown,Could never make this Island all her own:

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