And reſtleſs wiſh, in vain, my parched Throat
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe;
But if a Slumber haply do’s invade
My weary Limbs, my Fancy ſtill awake,
Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream,
Tipples imaginary Pots of Ale.
Awake, I find the ſetled Thirſt—
Still gnawing, and the pleaſant Phantom curſe.
Thus do I live from Pleaſure quitte debarr’d,
Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun’s genial Rays