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

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

If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away.

How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!

Thus shadow owes its birth to light.

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.