Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

Be wise with speed; a fool at forty is a fool indeed.