Nor Love, Not Honor, Wealth Nor Power,

Fools May Our Scorn, Not Envy, Raise. For Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.

Woman's Mind Oft' Shifts Her Passions, Like Th'inconstant Wind; Sudden She Rages, Like The Troubled Main, Now Sinks The Storm, And All Is Calm Again.

Thus Shadow Owes Its Birth To Light.

If The Heart Of A Man Is Depressed With Cares, The Mist Is Dispell'd When A Woman Appears; Like The Notes Of A Fiddle, She Sweetly, Sweetly Raises The Spirits, And Charms Our Ears.

The Fly That Sips Treacle Is Lost In The Sweets.