With hearts elate, we grasp the prize;
The charm is fled, the phantom dies!
What stock soe’er the misers have,
The heart will ever something crave;
Which, when possest, not soothes the mind,
But leaves an anxious blank behind.
What tho’ no bags of gold we’ve got?
We may be happy in our lot;
And with our little still content,
Our all perhaps will ne’er be spent: