To shoot at crows is powder flung away.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

One wife is too much for most husbands to bear, But two at a time there's no mortal can bear.

Look round, the wrecks of play behold; Estates dismember'd, mortgaged, sold! Their owners now to jails confin'd, Show equal poverty of mind.

Give me, kind heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation.

Gamesters and highwaymen are generally very good to their whores, but they are very devils to their wives.

What happiness the rural maid attends, In cheerful labour while each day she spends! She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent, And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.