A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much

When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat. Now, happy fisherman; now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!

Fill it up. I take as large draughts of liquor as I did of love. I hate a flincher in either.

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.

Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?

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.

Of all the fools that pride can boast, A Coxcomb claims distinction most.