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

I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own. Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise, Think slander can transplant the bays.

Cowards are cruel, but the brave love mercy and delight to save.

To cheat a man isnothing; but the womanmust have fine parts indeed who cheats a woman!

In beauty faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow.

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.

Around the steel no tortur'd worm shall twine, No blood of living insect stain my line; Let me, less cruel, cast the feather'd hook, With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook, Silent along the mazy margin stray, And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.