 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
66
AGAINST ENJOYMENT.
We love and hate, as restless monarchs fight,
Who boldly dare invade another's right:
Yet, when through all the dangerous toils they've run,
Ignobly quit the conquests they have won;
Those charming hopes, that made them valiant grow,
Pall'd with enjoyment, make them cowards now.
Who boldly dare invade another's right:
Yet, when through all the dangerous toils they've run,
Ignobly quit the conquests they have won;
Those charming hopes, that made them valiant grow,
Pall'd with enjoyment, make them cowards now.
Our passions only form our happiness,
Hopes still enlarge, as fears contract it less:
Hope with a gaudy prospect feeds the eye,
Sooths every sense, does with each wish comply;
But false Enjoyment the kind guide destroys,
We lose the passion in the treacherous joys.
Like the gay silk-worm, when it pleases most,
In that ungrateful web it spun, 'tis lost.
Hopes still enlarge, as fears contract it less:
Hope with a gaudy prospect feeds the eye,
Sooths every sense, does with each wish comply;
But false Enjoyment the kind guide destroys,
We lose the passion in the treacherous joys.
Like the gay silk-worm, when it pleases most,
In that ungrateful web it spun, 'tis lost.
Fruition only cloys the appetite;
More does the conquest, than the prize delight:
One victory gain'd, another fills the mind,
Our restless wishes cannot be confin'd.
Like boisterous waves, no settled bounds they know,
Fix'd at no point, but always ebb or flow.
More does the conquest, than the prize delight:
One victory gain'd, another fills the mind,
Our restless wishes cannot be confin'd.
Like boisterous waves, no settled bounds they know,
Fix'd at no point, but always ebb or flow.
Who most expects, enjoys the pleasure most,
'Tis rais'd by wishes, by fruition lost:
We're charm'd with distant views of happiness,
But near approaches make the prospect less.
Wishes, like painted landscapes, best delight,
Whilst distance recommends them to the sight:
Plac'd afar off, they beautiful appear;
But show their coarse and nauseous colours, near.
'Tis rais'd by wishes, by fruition lost:
We're charm'd with distant views of happiness,
But near approaches make the prospect less.
Wishes, like painted landscapes, best delight,
Whilst distance recommends them to the sight:
Plac'd afar off, they beautiful appear;
But show their coarse and nauseous colours, near.
Thus the fam'd Midas, when he found his store
Increasing still, and would admit of more,
With eager arms his swelling bags he press'd;
And expectation only made him bless'd:
But, when a boundless treasure he enjoy'd,
And every wish was with fruition cloy'd:
Then, damn'd to heaps, and surfeited with ore,
He curs'd that gold he doated on before.
Increasing still, and would admit of more,
With eager arms his swelling bags he press'd;
And expectation only made him bless'd:
But, when a boundless treasure he enjoy'd,
And every wish was with fruition cloy'd:
Then, damn'd to heaps, and surfeited with ore,
He curs'd that gold he doated on before.
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |