Joy and Pleasure

Now, Joy is born of parents poor,

And Pleasure of our richer kind;

Though Pleasure’s free, she 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 ate 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.