I have delayed you long, indeed;
But what is life? to most a plain
In which men roam in search of gain;
They build, they plant, they heap up store,
They work, they toil, they strive for more,
Nor joys nor comforts will desire:
Their wish, they say, is to retire,
But when they would their wealth enjoy
They find that every sweet will cloy.
Now, though your patience, reader, 's vast,