As he bears in battle-tides.

What tho' 't is but a rocking-chair

That prances with this stately air?

'T is a warrior bold

The reins doth hold,

Who bids all foes beware!

THOU ART MY LUTE

Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—

My being is attuned to thee.

Thou settest all my words a-wing,