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If a little labor, little are our gains. Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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Who with a little cannot be content, endures an everlasting punishment.
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And with our broth, and bread, and bits, sir friend, You've fared well : pray make an end ; Two days you've larded here ; a third, ye know, Makes guests and fish smell strong ; pray go
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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
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