The court was never made (I’m sure)

For idiots, like thee and I.

67. Hope (Where it may reasonably be cherished)

If trifling Hope has any room to plead,

’Tis that where Nature’s simple dictates lead:

So the wet hind, who travels o’er the plain

Through the cold mire and the afflicting rain;

Tho’ his low roofs with trickling showers run,

May hope next morn to see the chearful sun:

Or when keen hunger at the evening tide