All present blessings treading under foot,
Is scarce a milder tyrant than Despair.
With no past toils content, still planting new, 110
Hope turns us o’er to death alone for ease.
Possession, why more tasteless than pursuit?
Why is a wish far dearer than a crown?
That wish accomplish’d, why the grave of bliss?
Because, in the great future buried deep,
Beyond our plans of empire and renown,
Lies all that man with ardour should pursue;