Beauty! Thou Pretty Plaything! Dear Deceit, That

Beauty! Thou Pretty Plaything! Dear Deceit, That Steals So Softly O'er The Stripling's Heart, And Gives It A New Pulse Unknown Before!

Throughout The Whole Vegetable, Sensible, And Rational World, Whatever Makes Progress Towards Maturity, As Soon As It Has Passed That Point, Begins To Verge Towards Decay.

But If There Be An Hereafter,and That There Is, Conscience, Uninfluenc'dand Suffer'd To Speak Out, Tells Every Man,then Must It Be An Awful Thing To Die;more Horrid Yet To Die By One's Own Hand.

Its Visits, Like Those Of Angels, Short, And Far Between.

How Shocking Must Thy Summons Be, O Death, To Him That Is At Ease In His Possessions! Who, Counting On Long Years Of Pleasure Here, Is Quite Unfurnished For The World To Come.