To cease from yawning here below?
Of mortal man, what is the rôle?
To bustle, eat, and labor ply;
To plot, grow old, and then to die?
Not very lively this, or droll.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
No wonder in my mind begets
The sun, which poets call sublime;
Not this the first or second time
He rises, runs his race, and sets.