Pshaw! think of our day, and we’re children again.
’Tis folly to grieve that our life’s early vision
Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision.
A fairy-like show, far too fragile to last;
As bright as the rain-bow, and fading as fast.
’Tis folly to mourn that our hearts’ foolish kindness
Received in return but deceit for their blindness;
And vain to regret that false friends have all flown;
Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone.
Then fill up the glass, there’s no use in repining