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W hoe'er for pleasure plans a scheme, Will find it vanish like a dream, Affording nothing sound or real, Where happiness is all ideal; In grief, in joy, or either state, Fancy will always antedate, And when the thoughts on evil pore, Anticipation makes it more. Thus while the mind the future sees, It cancels all it's present ease.
Is Pleasure's scheme the point in view; How eagerly we all pursue !
Well—Tuesday is th' appointed day; How slowly wears the time away!
How dull the interval between,
Delia surveys, with curious eyes, The clouds collected in the skies; Wishes no storm may rend the air, And Tuesday may be dry and fair; And I look round, my boys, and pray, That Tuesday may be holiday. Things duly settled—what remains ? Lo! Tuesday comes
-alas! it rains; And all our visionary schemes Have died away, like golden dreams.
Once on a time, a rustic dame, (No matter for the lady's name) Wrapt up in deep imagination, Indulg'd her pleasing contemplation; While on a bench she took her seat, And plac'd the milk-pail at her feet, Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence, The profits which arose from thence; While fond ideas fill'd her brain, Of layings up, and monstrous gain, Till every penny which she told, Creative fancy turn'd to gold; And reasoning thus from computation, She spoke aloud her meditation.
“ Please Heav'n but to preserve my health, “ No doubt I shall have store of wealth; “ It must of consequence ensue “ I shall bave store of lovers too. “ Oh ! how I'll break their stubborn hearts, “ With all the pride of female arts. " What Suitors then will kneel before me! “ Lords, Earls, and Viscounts, shall adore me, “ When in my gilded coach I ride, “ My Lady at his Lordship's side, “ How will I laugh at all I meet “ Clatt’ring in pattens down the street! " And LOBBIN then I'll mind no more, “ Howe'er I lov'd him heretofore; " Or, if he talks of plighted truth, “ I will not hear the simple youth, “ But rise indignant from my seat, And spurn the lubber from
Action, alas! the speaker's grace,
Thus fancy ever loves to roam, To bring the gay materials home; Imagination forms the dream, And accident destroys the scheme,
CANDLE AND SNUFFERS.
"No author ever spar'd a brother:
divine, The mighty dupe of all the nine, Bids bis kite soar on paper wing, The critic comes, and cuts the string; Hence dire contention often grows 'Twixt man of verse, and man of prose; While prose-man
deems the verse-man fool, And measures wit by line and rule, And, as he lops off fancy's limb, Turns executioner of whim;