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Whoe’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 its 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
How darken’d o'er with clouds of spleen,
Did not the mind unlock her treasure,
And fancy feed on promis'd pleasure.
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)
Wrapp'd 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 alond 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 have 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
Clattring in pattens down the street!
And Lobbin then I'll miod no more,
Howe'er I lov'd him heretofore;
Or, if he talks of plighted truth,
I will not hear the simple youth,
Bat rise indignant from my seat,
And spurn the lubber from my feet."-
Action, alas ! the speaker's grace,
Ne'er came in more improper place,
For in the tos forth her shoe,
What fancied bliss the maid o'erthrew!
While down at once, with hideous fall,
Came lovers, wealth, and milk, and all.
Thus faucy ever loves to roam,
To bring the gay materials home;
Imagination forms the dream,
And accident destroys the scheme. Lloyd.
Once, on a time, a certain man was found,
That had a pond of water in his ground:
A fine large pond of water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn, for many a year.
Yet so it was a strange, unhappy dread
Of wanting water seiz'd the fellow's head :
When he was dry, he was afraid to drink
Too much at once, for fear his pond should sivk.
Perpetually tormented with this thought,
He never ventur'd on a hearty draught;
Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his store,
When half refreshi’d, he frugally gave o'er;
Reviving of himself reviv'd his fright,
"Better,' quoth he,' to be half chok'd than quite.'
Upon his pond continually intent,
In cares and pains his anxious life he spent;
Consuming all his time and strength away,
To make the pond rise higher ev'ry day:
He work’d and slav'd, and—oh! how slow it fills!
Pour'd in by pail-fulls, and took out-by gills.
In a wet season-he would skip about,
Placing his buckets under ev'ry spout;
From falling show'rs collecting fresh supply,
And grudging ev'ry cloud-that passed by:
Carsing the dryness of the times, each hour,
Although it rajn'd as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade through ev'ry dirty spot,
Where any little moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a hog : (mean?
And cry'd, whene'er folks blam'd him, 'What d'ye
It costs—a world of water, to be clean!
If some poor neighbour crav'd to slake his thirst, “What;-rob my pond! I'll see the rogue hang'd
A burning shame, these vermin of the poor
Should creep unpunish'd thus about my door!
As if I had not frogs and toads enoo,
That suck my pond, whatever I can do.'
The Sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of matters-that were wet:
Betimes he rose to sweep the morning dew,
And rested late to catch the ev'ning too.
With soughs and troughs, he labour'd to enrich
The rising pond, from ev'ry neighb'ring ditch ;
With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts, and
sluices, From growing plants he drain’d the very juices; Made ev'ry stick of wood upon the hedges, Of good behaviour to deposit pledges; By some conveyance, or another, still Devis’d recruits from each declining hill: He left, in short, for this beloved plunder, No stone unturn'd—that could have water under.
Sometimes--when forc'd to quit his awkward toil, And-sore against his will- to rest awhile; Then straight he took his book, and down he sat To calculate th' expenses he was at;
How much he suffer'd, at a mod’rate guess,
From all those ways by which the pond grew less;
For as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckon'd—not a single figure :
He knew a wise old saying, which maintain’d,
"That 'twas bad luck to count what one had
• First, for myself—my daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a year:
Although, thank Heaven, I never boil my meat,
Nor am I such a sinner as to sweat:
But things are come to such a pass indeed,
We spend ten times the water that we need :
People are grown, with washing, cleansing, rinsing,
So finical and nice, past all convincing ;
So many proud, fantastic modes, in short,
Are introduc'd, that my poor pond pays for't.
Not but I could be well enough content With what, upon my own account, is spent; But those large articles, from whence I reap No kind of profit, strike me on a heap : What a vast deal, each moment, at a sup, This ever-thirsty earth itself drinks up! Such holes! and gaps! alas ! my pond provides, Scarce for its own unconscionable sides : Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive, So many creatures as it keeps alive! That creep from ev'ry nook and corner, marry! Filching as much as ever they can carry: Then, all the birds that fly along the air Light at my pond, and come in for a sbare : Item, at ev'ry puff of wind that blows, Away at once-the surface of it goes: