If trifling Hope has any room to plead,
'Tis that where Nature's simple Dictates lead:
So the wet Hind, who travels o'er the Plain
Through the cold Mire and afflicting Rain;
Tho' his low Roofs with trickling Show'rs run,
May hope next Morn to see the chearful Sun:
Or when keen Hunger at the ev'ning Tide
Drives home the Shepherd to his rustick Bride,
His honest Reason haply might not stray,
Tho' he should dream of Dumpling all the way.