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 his 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 are 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.