Now, joy is born of parents poor,

And pleasure of our richer kind;

Though pleasure’s free, he cannot sing

As sweet a song as joy confined.


Pleasure’s a Moth, that sleeps by day

And dances by false glare at night;

But Joy’s a Butterfly, that loves

To spread its wings in Nature’s light.


Joy’s like a Bee that gently sucks

Away on blossoms its sweet hour;

But pleasure’s like a greedy Wasp

That plums and cherries would devour.


Joy’s like a Lark that lives alone,

Whose ties are very strong, though few;

But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,

Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.


Joy from her heart doth sing at home,

With little care if others hear;

But pleasure then is cold and dumb,

And sings and laughs with strangers near.