And the following verses are surely very pleasing to the discontented and unquiet:
’Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Just from the window to the bed,
To rise to see, and to be seen,
Graze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to sleep again.
But Fancy, that uneasy guest,
Still holds a longing in our breast:
She finds or frames vexations still,
Herself the greatest plague we feel.