'GIVE o'er your Whims, says my considerate Friend;
'Retrieve the fleeting Hours you idly spend:
'Blind to Advice, incorrigible, vain,
'You follow Fancy and her laughing Train;
'Your thoughtless Days in swift Delusion fly:'
So let them go, says unconverted I,
Look round the Globe, my Friend, and then you'll see
The drowsy World is slumb'ring just like me.
See on soft Beds the Hero sleeps secure,
Till War comes thund'ring at his trembling Door;
In wiser Dreams the Politician prys
Through distant Kingdoms with his half-shut Eyes:
The lull'd Projector builds aerial Towers,
And rolls smooth Rivers through enchanted Bowers.
The Chymist slumbers o'er imagin'd Gold,
So  Conquests in her Dreams are told.
What monstrous Phantoms in that Trance are born,
Through which  sees his sprouting Horn?