Forsaken of all comforts but these two,—
My fagot and my pipe—I sit to muse
On all my crosses, and almost excuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they do.
When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow,
Such cheerful expectations doth infuse
As makes me think ere long I cannot choose
But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now.
But having spent my pipe, I then perceive
That hopes and dreams are cousins,—both deceive.
Then mark I this conclusion in my mind,
It's all one thing,—both tend into one scope,—
To live upon Tobacco and on Hope:
The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.