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176 '' Trut on and think, to Morrow will repay; To Morrow's faler than the former Day; Lies more; and whilt it ays we hall be blet With ome new Joy cuts off what we poet; Strange Cozenage! none wou'd live pat Tears again, Yet all hope Pleaure in what yet remain, And from the Dregs of Life think to receive What the firt prightly Running could not give. I'm tir'd with waiting for this chymic Gold, Which fools us young, and beggars us when old. '' I hall now give you my Tranlation. '' De deeins en, regrets & d'erreurs en deirs Les Mortels inenés promenent leur Folie. '' Dans