Rich The Treasure, Sweet The Pleasure,- Sweet

When I Consider Life, 't Is All A Cheat. Yet Fool'd 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; And From The Dregs Of Life Think To Receive What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

To Take Up Half On Trust, And Half To Try, Name It Not Faith But Bungling Bigotry.

There Is A Pleasure In Being Mad, Which None But Madmen Know.

To Tame The Proud, The Fetter'd Slave To Free, These Are Imperial Arts.

Seek Not To Know What Must Not Be Reveal, For Joy Only Flows Where Fate Is Most Concealed. A Busy Person Would Find Their Sorrows Much More; If Future Fortunes Were Known Before!