But at length the dull languor of mortal decay
Throws a weight on its spirit too light for its clay;
And the fancy, subdued, as the body's opprest,
Resigns the faint flights that scarce wake in the breast.
A painful memento that man's not to play
A game of light folly through Life's sober day;
A just admonition, though view'd with regret,
Still blessedly offer'd, though thanklessly met.
Too long, I perhaps, like the many who stray,
Have upheld the gay themes of the Bacchanal's day;