There's nothing here that's free
From wearisome Anxiety:
And the whole Round of Mortal Joys
With short possession tires and cloys:
'Tis a dull Circle that we tread
Just from the Window to the Bed,
We rise to see and to be seen,
Gaze on the World a while, and then
We Yawn and Stretch to Sleep again.
But FANCY, that uneasie Guest
Still holds a Lodging in our Breast;
She finds or frames Vexations still,
Her self the greatest Plague we feel.