THE EXTENT OF LIFE’S VARIETY.
Just this little, and no more,
Is in ev’ry mortal’s pow’r,
Each to say, I tasted breath,
But the cup was fraught with death;
I have sigh’d, have laugh’d, have wept,
Wak’d to think, and thinking slept;
Slept my wearied limbs to rest,
Wak’d with labour in my breast;
Met with sorrows, happ’ly o’er,
Mix’d in pleasures now no more;
Hop’d and fear’d, with equal sense,
Dup’d by many a slight pretence:
Soon shall my soul her veil throw by,
My body with its kindred lie;
Of this I’m certain, but the rest
Is lock’d within a higher breast.