Now, joy is born of parents poor, br And pleasure of our richer kind; br Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing br As sweet a song as joy confined. br br Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day br And dances by false glare at night; br But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves br To spread its wings in Nature's light. br br Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks br Away on blossoms its sweet hour; br But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp, br That plums and cherries would devour. br br Joy's like a Lark that lives alone, br Whose ties are very strong, though few; br But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams, br Makes much acquaintance, no friends true. br br Joy from her heart doth sing at home, br With little care if others hear; br But pleasure then is cold and dumb, br And sings and laughs with strangers near.