The world, my dear Myra, is full of deceit,
And friendship's a jewel we seldom can meet;
How strange doth it seem that in searching around,
The source of contentment's so rare to be found.

Oh friendship, thou balsam, rich vauntner of Life,
Kind parent of ease, and composer of strife;
Without thee, alas, what are riches or pow'r,
But empty delusions, the joys of an hour.

How much to be prized and esteem'd is a friend
On whom you may always & safely depend:
Our joys, when extended, will always increase
And grief, when divided, is hush'd into peace.

When fortune is smiling, what crowds will appear,
Their kindness to offer & friendship sincere.
Tho change but the prospect, & point out distress,
No longer to court you they'll eagerly press.