Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
The house of laughter makes a house of woe.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.