Of care-worn dreamers, poor and proud,
As on they hurry in the search,
From realm to realm, o'er land and water,
Of Fate's fantastic, fickle daughter!
Ah! slaves sincere of flying phantom!
Just as their goddess they would clasp,
The jilt divine eludes their grasp,
And flits away to Bantam!
Poor fellows! I bewail their lot.
And here's the comfort of my ditty;
For fools the mark of wrath are not
So much, I'm sure, as pity.
'That man,' say they, and feed their hope,
'Raised cabbages--and now he's pope.
Don't we deserve as rich a prize?'
Ay, richer? But, hath Fortune eyes?
And then the popedom, is it worth
The price that must be given?--
Repose?--the sweetest bliss of earth,
And, ages since, of gods in heaven?
'Tis rarely Fortune's favourites
Enjoy this cream of all delights.
Seek not the dame, and she will you--
A truth which of her sex is true.

Snug in a country town
A pair of friends were settled down.
One sigh'd unceasingly to find
A fortune better to his mind,
And, as he chanced his friend to meet,