By Outward Show Let's Not Be Cheated;

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

My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground, And Hard, Very Hard, Is My Fare, But That Which Grieves Me More Is The Coldness Of My Dear.

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

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

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.