The crown of manhood is a winter-joy;
An evergreen, that stands the northern blast,
And blossoms in the rigour of our fate.
’Tis a prime part of happiness, to know
How much unhappiness must prove our lot;
A part which few possess! I’ll pay life’s tax,
Without one rebel murmur, from this hour,
Nor think it misery to be a man;
Who thinks it is, shall never be a god.
Some ills we wish for, when we wish to live. 420