Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,
Tipples imaginary pots of ale,
In vain; awake I find the settled thirst
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.
Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd,
Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays
Mature, John Apple, nor the downy Peach,
Nor Walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure,
Nor Medlar fruit delicious in decay:
Afflictions great! yet greater still remains.