We Frolic While 'tis May.

What Female Heart Can Gold Despise? What Cat 's Averse To Fish?

The Boast Of Heraldry, The Pomp Of Pow'r, And All That Beauty, All That Wealth E'er Gave, Awaits Alike Th' Inevitable Hour. The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.

Alas, Regardless Of Their Doom, The Little Victims Play! No Sense Have They Of Ills To Come Nor Care Beyond Today.

For Who, To Dumb Forgetfulness A Prey, This Pleasing Anxious Being E'er Resign'd, Left The Warm Precincts Of The Cheerful Day, Nor Cast One Longing Ling'ring Look Behind?