The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets. - John Gay

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

Through all the Employments of Life Each Neighbour abuses his Brother;
Whore and Rogue they call Husband and Wife:
All Professions be-rogue one another:
The Priest calls the Lawyer a Cheat,
The Lawyer be-knaves the Divine:
And the Statesman, because he's so great, Thinks his Trade as honest as mine.