How gaily is at first begun

Our Lives uncertain Race?

Whilst that sprightly Morning Sun,

With which we first set out to run,

Enlightens all the Place.

How smiling the World's Prospect lies!

How tempting to look thro'!

Parnassus to the Poet's Eyes,

Nor Beauty with a sweet surprize,

Does more inviting shew.

How promising's the Book of Fate, 

'Till thro'ly understood!

Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create,

That does the Youthful Fancy cheat,

With all that's great and good.

How soft the first Ideas move,

That wander in our Mind!

How full the Joy, how fair the Love,

That does that early Season move!

Like Flow'rs the Western Wind.

Our Sighs are then but vernal Air,

But April drops our Tears;

Which swiftly passing, all grows fair,

Whilst Beauty compensates our Care,

And Youth each Vapour clears.

But Oh! too soon, alas we climb,

Scarce feeling we ascend

The gentle rising Hill of Time;

From whence with Grief we see that prime,

And all in sweetness end.

The Die once cast, our Fortune known,

Fond expectation past;

The Thorns that former Years have sown,

The crops of late Repentance grown,

Thro' which we toil, at last.

Then every Care's a driving harm,

That helps to bear us down;

Which fading Smiles no more can charm,

But every Tear's a Winter's Storm,

And every look a Frown.

'Till with succeeding Ills oppress'd

For Joys we hop'd to find,

By Age so rumpl'd and undress'd,

We gladly sink us down to rest,

Leave following Crouds behind.