The Fly That Sips Treacle Is Lost

Look Round, The Wrecks Of Play Behold; Estates Dismember'd, Mortgaged, Sold! Their Owners Now To Jails Confin'd, Show Equal Poverty Of Mind.

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.

Sure Men Were Born To Lie, And Women To Believe Them!

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

Can Love Be Controll'd By Advice?