Baxter - HP PR3316 .B36 1821

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