To me most happy therefore he appears,
Who having once, unmov'd by hopes or fears,
Survey'd this sun, earth, ocean, clouds, and flame,
Well satisfy'd returns from whence he came.
Is life a hundred years, or e'er so few,
'Tis repetition all, and nothing new:
A fair, where thousands meet, but none can stay,
An inn, where travellers bait, then post away;
A sea, where man perpetually is tost,
Now plung'd in bus'ness, now in trifles lost:
Who leave it first, the peaceful port first gain;
Hold then! no farther launch into the main:
Contract your sails; life nothing can bestow
By long continuance, but continu'd woe:
The wretched privilege daily to deplore
The funerals of our friends, who go before:
Diseases, pains, anxieties, and cares,
And age surrounded with a thousand snares.