'Tis easier far a wreath to bind,
Than a good owner fort to find.
I kill'd a thousand flies overnight,
Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.
To the mother I give;
For the daughter I live.
A breach is every day,
By many a mortal storm'd;
Let them fall in the gaps as they may,
Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.
What harm has thy poor mirror done, alas?
Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass!