Sure oft, unjustly, we impute to Fate
A thousand evils which ourselves create;
Complain that life affords but little joy,
And yet that little foolishly destroy.
We check the pleasures that too soon subside,
And break the current of too weak a tide.
Like Atalanta, golden trifles chace,
And baulk that swiftness which might win the race;
For life has joys adapted to each stage,
Love for our youth, ambition for our age.
But wilful man inverting her decrees,
When young would govern, and when old would please,
Covets the fruits his autumn shou'd bestow,
Nor tastes the fragrance whilst the blossoms blow.
Then far-fled joys in vain he would restore,
His appetite unanswer'd by his pow'r:
Round beauty's neck he twists his wither'd arms,
Receives with loathing to her venal charms:
He rakes the ashes, when the fire is spent,
Nor gains fruition, tho' he gains consent.
But can we say 'tis Providence's fault,
If thus untimely all her gifts are sought,
If summer-crops which must decay we keep,
And in the winter would the harvest reap?