Vain, Very Vain, My Weary

Alike All Ages. Dames Of Ancient Days Have Led Their Children Through The Mirthful Maze, And The Gay Grandsire, Skill'd In Gestic Lore, Has Frisk'd Beneath The Burden Of Threescore.

Her Modest Looks The Cottage Might Adorn, Sweet As The Primrose Peeps Beneath The Thorn.

Ask Me No Questions, And I'll Tell You No Lies.

I Do Not Love A Man Who Is Zealous For Nothing.

Our Bounty, Like A Drop Of Water, Disappears, When Diffus'd Too Widely