Lions, wolves, and vultures don't live together in herds, droves or flocks. Of all animals of prey, man is the only sociable one. Every one of us preys upon his neighbor, and yet we herd together.

Nor watch the wasting of the midnight oil.

What happiness the rural maid attends, In cheerful labour while each day she spends! She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent, And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.

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

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.

The careful insect 'midst his works I view,

Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew,

With golden treasures load his little thighs,

And steer his distant journey through the skies.

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view.

By outward show let's not be cheated; An ass should like an ass be treated.

From kings to cobblers 'tis the same; Bad servants wound their masters' fame.

What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air, Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare. Blood stuffed in skins is British Christians' food, And France robs marshes of the croaking brood.

Some folks of cider make a rout

And cider's well enough no doubt

When better liquors fail;

But wine, that's richer, better still,

Ev'n wine itself (deny't who will)

Must yield to nappy ale.

Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.

Man may escape from rope and gun; Nay, some have outlived the doctor's pill: Who takes a woman must be undone, That basilisk is sure to kill. The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets, So he that tastes woman, woman, woman, He that tastes woman, ruin meets.

Fill ev'ry glass, for wine inspires us,

And fires us

With courage, love and joy.

Women and wine should life employ.

Is there ought else on earth desirous?

To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let Nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire The shining bellies of the fly require; The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail.

Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow, In books and love the mind one end pursues, And only change the expiring flames renews.

To shoot at crows is powder flung away.

Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.

But money, wife, is the true Fuller's Earth for reputations, there is not a spot or a stain but what it can take out.

We only part to meet again. Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be. The faithful compass that still points to thee.