How long vain Hope do'st thou my joys suspend?
Say! must my expectation know no end!
Thou wast more kind unto the wandring Greek
Who did ten years his Wife and Country seek:
Ten lazy Winters in my glass are run,
Yet my thoughts travail seems but new begun.
Smooth Quick-sand which the easy World beguiles,
Thou shalt not bury me in thy false smiles.
They that in hunting shadowes pleasure take
May benefit of thy illusion make.
Since thou hast banisht me from my content
I here pronounce thy finall banishment.
Farewell thou dream of nothing! thou meer voice!
Get thee to fooles that can feed fat with noise:
Bid wretches markt for death look for reprieve,
Or men broke on the wheel perswade to live.
Henceforth my comfort and best Hope shall be,
By scorning Hope, nere to rely on thee.

More verses by Henry King