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.

One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.

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

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

A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much

Look round, the wrecks of play behold; Estates dismember'd, mortgaged, sold! Their owners now to jails confin'd, Show equal poverty of mind.

Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!