Nor Youth alone has joy in view,
has its satisfactions too.
Who envies not the miser's store?
Who seeming rich, and really poor,
Yet that one passion, lust of gain,
Supports him under ev'ry pain:
Amidst a thousand ills he'll thrive,
And think it  to live.
The venerable Sage, who deals
In long, insipid, ancient tales,
Who dwells on feats of former times,
And loudly taxes modern crimes;
Whose tedious lore at morn's begun,
And ends but with the setting sun;
At ninety odd, this happy man
Repines, that life is but a span!
That as the sparks fly upwards all,
So mortal man is doom'd to fall!
That flesh is grass; and like the flow'r,
Springs, blooms, and dies within an hour! —
More truths, perhaps, he might unfold;
But ah! he dies; his tale is told.