’Tis an empty fleeting shade,
By imagination made:
’Tis a bubble, straw, or worse;
’Tis a baby’s hobby-horse:
’Tis a little living, clear;
’Tis ten thousand pounds a-year:
’Tis a title, ’tis a name:
’Tis a puff of empty fame,
Fickle as the breezes blow:
’Tis a lady’s YES _or_ NO!
And when the description’s crown’d
’Tis just _no where_ to be found.
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+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
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