Extract from young's last Day

Have angels sinn'd, and shall not man beware? How shall a son of earth decline the snare? Not folded arms, and slackness of the mind, Can promise for the safety of mankind: None are supinely good: Thro' care and pain, And various toils, the steep ascent we gain. This is the scene of combat, not of rest, Man's is laborious happiness at best; On this side death his dangers never cease, His joys are joys of conquest, crown'd with peace.