The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.
Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawned like man, but ne'er like man betrayed.
No author ever spar'd a brother.
Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow, In books and love the mind one end pursues, And only change the expiring flames renews.
Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.