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A MORAL, by                    
First Line: Ye sons of folly, sing
Last Line: Our life may end.


YE sons of Folly, sing,
Whate'er betide:
On ills that life may bring
Lean not, but glide.
Pleasure costs not, nor hath
Sad tearful showers,
But scatters on our path
Delightful flowers.

Yes! Joy's delirium bear
Where'er you go;
And laugh, devoid of care,
At weal or woe.
Long as your mistress loves,
To her be true;
If she inconstant proves,
Do you change too.

Life's winter on doth haste,
Soon flits our prime;
Let us not therefore waste
Our little time.
Who can the future know--
What fate may send?
To-morrow, ere it go,
Our life may end.





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