The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets

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.

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd.

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.

So comes a reckoning when the banquet's o'er,— The dreadful reckoning, and men smile no more.

Life is a jest; and all things show it. I thought so once; and now I know it.

Adieu, she cried, and waved her lily hand.