Man's rich with little, were his judgment true; <br /> Nature is frugal, and her wants are few; <br /> Those few wants answer'd, bring sincere delights; <br /> But fools create themselves new appetites: <br /> Fancy and pride seek things at vast expense, <br /> Which relish not to reason, nor to sense. <br /> When surfeit, or unthankfulness, destroys, <br /> In nature's narrow sphere, our solid joys, <br /> In fancy's airy land of noise and show, <br /> Where nought but dreams, no real pleasures grow; <br /> Like cats in air-pumps, to subsist we strive <br /> On joys too thin to keep the soul alive. <br /> Lemira's sick; make haste; the doctor call: <br /> He comes; but where's his patient? At the ball. <br /> The doctor stares; her woman curt'sies low, <br /> And cries, "My lady, sir, is always so: <br /> Diversions put her maladies to flight; <br /> True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night: <br /> I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) <br /> For fevers take an opera in June: <br /> And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, <br /> A midnight park is sovereign for a cold: <br /> With colics, breakfasts of green fruit agree; <br /> With indigestions, supper just at three." <br /> A strange alternative, replied Sir Hans, <br /> Must women have a doctor, or a dance? <br /> Though sick to death, abroad they safely roam, <br /> But droop and die, in perfect health, at home: <br /> For want--but not of health, are ladies ill; <br /> And tickets cure beyond the doctor's bill.<br /><br />Edward Young<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-of-fame-the-universal-passion-excerpt/
