When I consider life, t is all a cheat. Yet foold with hope, men favour the deceit; Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay. To-morrow s falser than the former day; Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest With some new joys, cuts off what we possest. Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;1 And from the dregs of life think to receive What the first sprightly running could not give.
Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellowd long, Even wonderd at, because he droppd no sooner. Fate seemd to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.