And yet this puny space is fill'd with toil
And labours in the transitory scene,
To make life wretched, as 'tis frail and fleeting.
Rattles and toys employ and please our childhood.
Wealth, pomp, and pleasure, full as arrant trifles,
Commence the idols of our riper years,
And fill the mind with images as wild;
Absurd, fantastic, as a sick man's dreams,
Disquieting this span of life in vain.
He truly lives and makes the most of life