Classic Poem

What is this life, this active guest,
Which robs our peaceful clay of rest?
This trifle, which while we retain,
Causes inquietude and pain?
This breath, which we no sooner find,
Than in a moment 'tis resigned?
Whose momentary noise, when o'er,
Is never, never heard of more!
And even monarchs, when it ends,
Become offensive to their friends;
Emit a putrid noisome smell,
To those that loved 'em e'er so well!

Pond'ring these things within my heart,
Surely, said I — life is a f — t!