To-morrow is beyond your pow’r;
Perhaps the fondly-promis’d hour
May lay you in the dust.
If now with health your pulse beats high,
And joy sits sparkling in your eye,
Yet be the flame represt;
Your sails, while fav’ring zephyrs kiss,
With moderation taste the bliss,
That warms your swelling breast.
Nor deem fair virtue’s rules severe,