The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.

Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?

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

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.

Envy's a sharper spur than pay.

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