How large a margin yawns ’twixt thought and fact!
Rich Expectation robs the beggar Deed,
An unwise spendthrift, all his fortune’s sackt
To build the storehouse whence he ne’er can feed:
For, Hope devours her progeny in the womb;
Glutted with meat, she thinks she shall not starve;
She lies, she chews the cud, sleeps by the tomb,
Accustomed to past gorging, wakes to carve;
Poor idiot, all her rapture’s drunk away,
The sediment’s tasteless, save of craving thirst;
Her hydra debts seem lost in what they pay,
She cannot feed, till they’re discharged first.
I only know one hope, that ne’er deceives,
What’s stay’d on thee buoys less than it relieves.