When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat. Now, happy fisherman; now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!

And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place.

Good housewives all the winter's rage despise, Defended by the riding-hood's disguise; Or, underneath the umbrella's oily shade, Safe through the wet on clinking pattens tread, Let Persian dames the unbrella's ribs display, To guard their beauties from the sunny ray; Or sweating slaves support the shady load, When eastern monarchs show their state abroad; Britain in winter only knows its aid, To guard from chilling showers the walking maid.

I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. . . . . My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much must talk in vain.

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

If the heart of a man is depressed with cares, The mist is dispelled when a woman appears.

When we risk no contradiction, It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.