Who talks much, must talk in vain.
To friendship every burden's light.
Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.
If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away.
Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round, And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd? No; the dead know it not, nor profit gain; It only serves to prove the living vain.
Envy's a sharper spur than pay.