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

Envy's a sharper spur than pay.

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.

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.

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.

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view.

To shoot at crows is powder flung away.