Under the Line that equal's night and dayGuiana stands, part of America:On whose head Phoebus shoots his fiery steams,Twice every year, with down right darted beams.In his Twelve Houses, as he travels forthAlongst the Zodiack, 'twixt the South and North.Whose Native Indian hath not, nor needs ArtTo clothe himself, Nature supplies that Part.They're true Philosophers, not much they have,Nor do they want much, nor much do they crave.They care not for to morrow; no supply,But just from hand to mouth, no Gra∣nary:If they want Flesh, they take their bow in hand.0