Age and want sit smiling at the gate.
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, and sit attentive to his own applause.
Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!
Where beams of imagination play, the memory's soft figures melt away.