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.

What then in love can woman do? If we grow fond they shun us. And when we fly them, they pursue: But leave us when they've won us.

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

Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeits, and corporeal pain? He barr'd from every use of wealth, Envies the ploughman's strength and health.

If the heart of a man is depressed with cares, The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears; Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly Raises the spirits, and charms our ears.

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.

I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own. Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise, Think slander can transplant the bays.