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PLATO'S ADVICE.
SAys Plato, why ſhould man be vain,
ſince bounteous heaven has made him great,
Why looks he with inſolent diſdain,
on thoſe undeck'd with wealth and ſtate,
Can coſtly robes, or beds of down,
or all the gems that deck the fair,
Can all the glories of a crown,
give health or eaſe the brow of care?
The ſcepter'd king, the burden'd ſlave,
the humble, and the haughty die,
The rich, the poor, the baſe, the brave,
in duſt, without diſtinction ly.
Go ſearch the tombs where monarchs reſt,
who once the greateſt titles bore;
Of wealth and glory they're bereft,
and all their honours are no more.
Pale Luna, miſtreſs of the night,
beat ⟨back⟩ bright Sol's refulgent beams,
Then darts on us his borrow'd light,
and decks the grove with ſilver'd ſcenes,
But when in dim obſcuring ſhades,
off our dark globe it flies;
Its glory does begin to fade,
its beauties gone, it fades and dies.
So flies the meteor through the ſkies,
and ſpreads along a gilded train;
When ſhot 'tis gone; its beauty dies;
diſſolves to common air again.
So 'tis with us my jovial ſouls,
let friendſhip reign while here we ſtay,
Let's crown our joys with flowing bowls,
when Jove commands we muſt obey.
