Disasters on disasters grow,
And those which are not sent we make;
The good we rarely find below,
Or, in the search, the road mistake.
The object of our fancied joys
With eager eye we keep in view:
Possessions, when acquired, destroys
The object, and the passion too.
The hat that hid Belinda's hair
Was once the darling of her eye;
'Tis now dismiss'd, she knows not where;
Is laid aside, she knows not why.
Life is to most a nauseous pill,
A treat for which they dearly pay:
Let's take the good, avoid the ill,
Discharge the debt, and walk away.