Classic Poem

That I may reap more Pleasure, promise less;
Fierce Expectation kills our Happiness:
And while we would anticipate our Joy,
We the Fruition, e'er it comes, destroy:
Our forward Hopes still their own Ends prevent,
As Hast is oft our Speed's Impediment.
To raise my Appetite, conceal my Fare:
Desires soon pall, and seldom answer'd are.
Love's Feasts, as other Banquets, please us more,
When we least know, what we shall have, before.