Joseph Brown Ladd (1764–1786)

’T IS an empty, fleeting shade,

By imagination made:

’T is a bubble, straw, or worse

’T is a baby’s hobby-horse:

’T is two hundred shillings clear;

’T is ten thousand pounds a year:

’T is a title, ’t is a name;

’T is a puff of empty fame;

Fickle as the breezes blow;

’T is a lady’s yes or no!

And when the description’s crown’d,

’T is just no where to be found.

Arouet shows, I must confess,

Says Delia, what is happiness;

I wish he now would tell us what

This self-same happiness is not.

What happiness is not? I vow,

That, Delia, you have posed me now:

What it is not—stay, let me see—

I think, dear maid, ’t is—not for me.