Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!

What ardently we wish, we soon believe.

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

How blessings brighten as they take their flight.