When we risk no contradiction, It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.
Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
Lest men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view.
Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeits, and corporeal pain? He barr'd from every use of wealth, Envies the ploughman's strength and health.
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.
Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.