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.

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

Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round, And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd? No; the dead know it not, nor profit gain; It only serves to prove the living vain.

So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.

Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.

Envy is a kind of praise.

What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes