SONNET II.

WIsely, O C*; enjoy the present hour,
The present hour is all the time we have,
High God the rest has plac'd beyond our pow'r,
Consign'd, perhaps, to grief — or to the grave.

Wretched the man, who toils ambition's slave;
Who pines for wealth, or sighs for empty fame;
Who rolls in pleasures which the mind deprave,
Bought with severe remorse, and guilty shame.

Virtue and knowledge be our better aim;
These help us Ill to bear, or teach to shun;
Let friendship cheer us with her gen'rous flame,
Friendship, the sum of all our joys in one;
So shall we live each moment fate has giv'n;
How long, or short, let us resign to heav'n.