AN ODE,

&c. &c.

WHY do I, O most gracious God!

So heavily complain?

And at thy providence most just,

Why do I thus repine?

Since by reflecting I perceive,

And certainly de know,

That I, my wretched self alone,

Am cause of all my woe.

Who wittingly do strive in vain,

From darkness light to bring;

And life and solid joys expect

Under Death's awful reign.

As bitter wormwood never doth

Delicious honey yield,

Nor can the chearful grape be reap'd

From thistles in the field:

So who, in this uncertain life,

Deceitful joys pursue,

They fruits do seek upon such trees

On which it never grew.

That fading beauty men admire,

Of person, and of face;

That splendour of rich ornaments,

Which stately buildings grace;

That train of noble ancestors,

Which gives illustrious birth,

Wealth, Luxury; then add to these

All the delights on earth:

Yea, whatsoever object doth

Invite our wand'ring sight,

And whatsoe'er our touch doth feel

With pleasure and delight;

L

They all, like despicable dust

And atoms, fly away;

And are mere dreams of the short night,

Which we have here to stay.

That which is past is nothing sure;

And what of joy to come

Impatiently we want; when got,
Is quickly past and gone:

And when 'tis past, like other things,

It nothing will be thought;

Should then that dream, which nothing is,

So anxiously be sought?