Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a fathers care. Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend.
Virgins are like the fair flowr in its lustre, Which in the garden enamels the ground, Near it the bees in play flutter and cluster, And gaudy butterflies frolic around. But when once plucked tis no longer alluring, To Convent-garden tis sent (as yet sweet), There fades and shrinks, and grows past all enduring, Rots, stinks, and dies and is trod under feet.