As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.
The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
'T is impious in a good man to be sad.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.