How, Like A Moth, The

From Kings To Cobblers 'tis The Same; Bad Servants Wound Their Masters' Fame.

In Love We Are All Fools Alike.

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.

Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.

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.