Those who weep most the soonest gain relief Though expectations oft away have flown Tis all the same:--'twill never make me grieve Tis past our pow'r to live on love or air To avoid the tempting bit, 'Tis better far at table not to sit Too much you may profess Twere wrong with hope our fond desires to feed Was always wishing distant scenes to know We scarcely good can find without alloy When husbands some assistance seemed to lack When mourning 's nothing more than change of dress When passion prompts, few obstacles can clog While good, if spoken, scarcely is believed Who knows too much, oft shows a want of sense Who only make friends in order to gain voices in their favour Who would wish to reduce Boccaccio to the same modesty as Virgil Who, born for hanging, ever yet was drowned? Wife beautiful, witty and chaste woman, who drove him to despair You little dream for whom you guard the store