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Letters concerning
Truſt on and think, to Morrow will repay;
To Morrow's falſer than the former Day;
Lies more; and whilſt it ſays we ſhall be bleſt
With ſome new Joy cuts off what we poſſeſt;
Strange Cozenage! none wou'd live paſt Tears again,
Yet all hope Pleaſure in what yet remain,
And from the Dregs of Life think to receive
What the firſt ſprightly Running could not give.
I'm tir'd with waiting for this chymic Gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.
I ſhall now give you my Tranſlation.
De deſſeins en, regrets & d'erreurs en deſirs
Les Mortels inſenſés promenent leur Folie.
Dans
