How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!
Cowards are cruel, but the brave love mercy and delight to save.
In beauty faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow.
Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
Were I laid on Greenland's Coast, And in my Arms embrac'd my Lass; Warm amidst eternal Frost, Too soon the Half Year's Night would pass.
A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much