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And what is Life ? an hour-glass on the run |
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A mist retreating from the morning sun |
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A busy bustling still repeated dream |
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Its length ? A moment’s pause, a moment’s thought |
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And happiness ? A bubble on the stream |
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That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought
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Vain hopes—what are they ? Puffing gales of morn |
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That of its charms divests the dewy lawn |
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And robs each flowret of its gem and dies |
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A cobweb hiding disappointments thorn |
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Which stings more keenly thro’ the thin disguise
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And thou, O trouble ? Nothing can suppose, |
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And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows, |
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What need requireth thee. |
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So free and lib’ral as thy bounty flows, |
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Some necessary cause must surely be.
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And what is death ? Is still the cause unfound |
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The dark mysterious name of horrid sound |
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A long and ling’ring sleep the weary crave— |
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And peace—where can its happiness abound ? |
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No where at all but Heaven and the grave
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Then what is Life ? When stript of its disguise |
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A thing to be desir’d it cannot be |
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Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes |
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Gives proof sufficient of its vanity |
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’Tis but a trial all must undergo |
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To teach unthankful mortals how to prize |
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That happiness vain man’s denied to know |
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Untill he’s call’d to claim it in the skies. |