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The warmer sun, and moist'ning dews that fall,
Bring to perfection, fruits, herbs, great and small.
The western winds puff gently thro' the field,
Waving rich corns which fertile valleys yield.
The herds and flocks with pleasure feed on hills,
Quenching their thirst among the purling rills.
The careful ant her little gran'ry stores,
Against the winter's chilling sleety showers.
The painful bee, with purest honey, fills
Laboriously, her narrow waxen cells.
In this sweet season, birds and beasts rejoice;
All Nature smiles with new supplies of joys.

E'en so is man in his full strength of age;
Nothing he doubts, no cares his mind engage,
Except the world, and worldly gain; he feels
No other smart; to carnal fires he yields.
With courage stoutly scampers he thro' life;
Till grown mature, he fondly weds a wife:
Then tamely toils, subsistence to provide
For his domestics and his fav'rite bride.
Now some religion he must needs pursue;
His youthful rambles age 'gins to subdue.
Now is the time he gains repute and fame,
Or infamy, reproach, and scorn, and shame.
All his perfections now are at the height;
His sun returns declining down to night.
Temptations now will ev'ry day surround him,
And many arrows are design'd to wound him.
If he is rich, he's tempted to be proud;
If he is strong, he's tempted to be rude.
If he is poor, he's tempt'd to steal and lye;
If he is wise, on's wisdom to rely.
If he is foolish, all men prize him nought;
If ignorant, he has no sense of thought.
If he's ill match'd, he's tempted to disdain;
If he is carnal, certainly profane.
If fortunate, he fortune still pursues;
If hapless, then much discontent ensues.
His summer ends, the rip'ning harvest comes;
Old age ensues, that brings us to our tombs.
The reaper, Death, no mortal can defy;
And then, as falls the tree, so must it ly.