Life

When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat: Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit; Trust on, and think, to-morrow will repay: To-morrow's falser than the former day; Lies more, and while it says we shall be bless'd With some new joys, cuts off what we possess'd: Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain: And from the dregs of life think to receive What the first sprightly running could not give. I'm tir'd with waiting for this chymic gold, Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.

What art thou, life, so dearly lov'd by all? What are thy charms that thus the great desire thee, And to retain thee part with pomp and titles? To buy thy presence, the gold watching miser Will pour his mouldy bags of treasure out, And grow at once a prodigal. The wretch Clad with disease and poverty's thin coat, Yet holds thee fast, tho' painful company. O life! thou universal wish; what art thou? Thou'rt but a day—A few uneasy hours: Thy morn is greeted by the flocks and herds; And every bird that flatters with its note, Salutes thy rising sun: Thy noon approaching, Then haste the flies and ev'ry creeping insect To bask in thy meridian; that declining As quickly they depart, and leave thy evening To mourn the absent ray: Night at hand, Then croaks the raven conscience, time mispent, The owl despair seems hideous, and the bat Confusion flutters up and down— Life's but a lengthen'd day not worth the waking for