The Poets and Poetry of America/Human Frailty

Disasters on disasters grow, And those which are not sent we make; The good we rarely find below, Or, in the search, the road mistake.

The object of our fancied joys With eager eye we keep in view: Possessions, when acquired, destroys The object, and the passion too.

The hat that hid Belinda's hair Was once the darling of her eye; 'Tis now dismiss'd, she knows not where; Is laid aside, she knows not why.

Life is to most a nauseous pill, A treat for which they dearly pay: Let's take the good, avoid the ill, Discharge the debt, and walk away.