 | Miscellanies In Prose And Verse |  |
Written in February, 1737.
'Tis odd, that all Ages complain of the Times;Is Life then made up but of Follies and Crimes?
Might each Man, by a Wish, obtain what he wou'd;
The Wisest could hardly find out his own Good:
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So nearly all Joy does still border on Sorrow.
The old Hunks, 'midst his Heaps, cries aloud for more Gold;
The gay Nymph only prays, she may never grow old;
Th'Ambitious wou'd lead the whole World in a String;
The Voluptuous desires, but to have his full Swing.
Suppose all this granted, you'll say, and what then?
Every one falls to wishing and praying again.
Content, like Perfection's a mere Term of Art,
It may lodge on the Tongue, but ne'er reaches the Heart.
| Miscellanies In Prose And Verse | |