BAXTER'S POEMS. Or is it youthful rage, Or childish toying? Or is decrepid age Worth man's enjoying? Is it deceitful wealth, Got by care, fraud, or stealth, Or short, uncertain health, Which thus befool men ? Or do the serpent's lies, By the world's ftatteties, And tempting vanities, Still over-rule them? Or do they in a dream, Sleep out their season ? Or borne down by lust's stream, Which conquers reasoh? The silly lambs to day ' Pleasantly skip and play, Whom butchers mean t<l slay, Perhaps to morrow : Jn a more brutish sort, Do careless sinners sport, . Or in dead sleep still snort, As near to sorrow ; Till life, not well begun, Be sadly ended, And the web they have spun, Can ue'er be mended. What is the time .that's gone, And what is· that to c01ne ? Is it not now as none ? The present stays not. 1-71
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