Classic Poem

How we dally out our days!
How we seek a thousand ways
To find death! the which, if none
We sought out, would show us one
Never was there morning yet,
Sweet as is the violet,
Which man's follie did not soon
Wish to be expir'd in noon:
As though such an haste did tend
To our bliss, and not our end.

Nay, the young ones in the nest
Sucke this folly from the breast;
And no stammering ape but can
Spoil a prayer to be a man.

Sooner shall the wandering star
Learn what rest and quiet are;
Sooner shall the slippery rill
Leave his motion and stand still.

Be it joy, or be it sorrow,
We refer all to the morrow;
That, we think, will ease our paine;
That, we do suppose again,
Will increase our joy; and soe
Events, the which we cannot know,
We magnify, and are (in sum)
Enamour'd of the time to come.

Well, the next day comes, and then
Another next, and soe to ten,
To twenty we arrive, and find
No more before us than behind

Of solid joy; and yet haste on
To our consummation;
Till the forehead often have
The remembrance of a grave;
And, at last, of life bereav'd,
Die unhappy and deceiv'd.