The jovial swain that yokes the morning team,
And all the verdure of the field enjoys,
See him, how languid, when the noon-tide beam
Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys.
So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled,
10
We at the summit of our hill arrive:
Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past—are dead,
But what still deepening clouds of Care survive!