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 What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you a while, they glide Into the grave.

Man knows where first he ships himself, but he Never can tell where shall his landing be.

Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not let His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.

Many we are, and yet but few possess Those fields of everlasting happiness.