Let the rich man fill his belly;
Let him fast that has no bread;
And he may sleep in the moon light
That cannot find a bed.


If the sea were one great ink-pot
And the sky of paper made,
The evil that's in women
Could not all be said.


If the sea were one great ink-pot
And of paper all the sky,
It were not enough for telling
How deeply men can lie.


To love with no return
Is a sad thing to befall;
But a sadder, to come to die
Before having loved at all.