Still on it creeps,
Each little moment at another's heels,
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up
Of such small parts as these, and men look back
Worn and bewilder'd, wondering how it is.

Thinks't thou there are no serpents in the world
But those that slide along the grassy sod,
And sting the luckless foot that presses them?
There are who in the path of social Iife
Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun,
And sting the soul.

The bliss e'en of a moment still is bliss.

Busy work brings after ease;
Ease brings sport and sport brings rest;
For young and old, of all degrees,
The mingled lot is best.

O! who shall lightly say that fame
is nothing but an empty name?