When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;
Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies worse; and while it says, we shall be blessed
With some new joys, cuts off what we possessed.
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
And, from the dregs of life, think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired with waiting for this chemic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.
More verses by John Dryden
- Song (Sylvia The Fair, In The Bloom Of Fifteen)
- Astræa Redux. A Poem, On The Happy Restoration And Return Of His Sacred Majesty, Charles The Second
- Religio Laici
- A Song To A Fair Young Lady Going Out Of Town In The Spring
- To The Memory Of Mr Oldham