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PART I.
THE days how few, how short the years of man's too rapid race,Each leaving, as it swiftly flies, a shorter in its place?
They who the longest lease enjoy, have told us with a sigh,That to be born seems little more than to begin to die.
Numbers there are who feel this truth, with fears alarm'd; and yetIn life's delusions lull'd asleep, this weighty truth forget:
And am not I to these akin? age slumbers o'er the quill;Its honour blots, whate'er it writes; and am I writing still?
Conscious of nature in decline, and languor in my thoughts,To soften censure, and abate its rigour on my faults;
Permit
