Which beats his bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.
It is a flower, which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep:
Then shrinks into that fatal mould,
Where its first being was enroll'd.
It is a dream, whose seeming truth
20Is moraliz'd in age and youth: