University of Virginia Library

Many there are who, in this mortal strife,
Have reach'd the slippery heights of splendid life:
For Fortune's ready hand its succour lent;
Smiling she rais'd them up the steep ascent,

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To hurl them headlong from that lofty seat
To which she led their unsuspecting feet;
E'en at the moment when all fears disperse,
And their proud fancy sees no sad reverse.
Little they think, beguil'd by fair success,
That Joy is but the herald of Distress:
The hasty wing of Time escapes their sight,
And those dark evils that attend his flight:
Vainly they dream, with gay presumption warm,
Fortune for them will take a steadier form;
She, unconcern'd at what her victims feel,
Turns with her wonted haste her fatal wheel.