The tast of hot Arabia's Spice we know,
Free from the Scorching Sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm, in Persian Silks we shine,
And without Planting drink of every Vine;
To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs,
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims.
Ours is the Harvest where the Indians mow,
We plough the deep, and reap what others Sow.
I shall only add two lines more of his, quoted by several Authors.
All that the Angels do above,