Pray, mortals, pray, in sickness or in pain,
Not long nor blest to live, but pure from stain.
A life of pleasure, and a life of woe,
When both are past, the difference who can show?
But all can tell, how wide apart in price
A life of virtue, and a life of vice.
Then still, sad Irza, tread your thorny way,
Since life must end, and merits ne’er decay.
Wounded past hope, still prize the pleasure pure,
To heal those hearts which yet can hope a cure;