Oh! where are the riches that bubbled like fountains,
In places we neither could utter nor spell,
A thousand miles inland 'mid untrodden mountains,
Where silver and gold grew like heath and blue-bell?
Now curst be the projects, and curst the projectors,
And curst be the bubbles before us that rolled,
Which, bursting, have left us like desolate spectres,
Bewailing our bodies of paper and gold.
- Thomas Love Peacock
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