Page:Florian - The Fables, 1888.djvu/127

Rh  With no sure aim, no end in view, And seldom knowing what to do;— Driven, forc'd on, and in great stress, Seeking some spot, some safe recess, Where to arrive all out of breath, And there to creep To the last sleep— Such then is, and , and ; This is the way we journey on:— God's will be done!  

'Tis done: the lyre is mute; My labors here must have an end; Though still the Muse might wrongs impute, That should perchance our manners mend, (If she but had an abler friend).

But no; her work would prove in vain; For the world's folly, int'rest, pride, Will e'er bring trouble in their train, However much they be decried. 'Tis vain that philosophic sects May censure man for his defects; They waste their wisdom and their rhymes. Let the world wag! Go with the times!

Or live retir'd, content and free, In some deep-hid obscurity. There, what could fail us that might bless 