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 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.