In fond anger at the approach of Death?
Did all thy days in unmixed misery pass?
No drop of pleasure moisten the cracked glass?
If satiety the fault, better, Guest,
Fly a feast too hospitable, and rest.
Since the offence a glut of life, the waste
Is the worse the longer the life shall last.
Why live, when, as each hour is born, and dies,
You read its curses in lack-lustre eyes?
Off with yourself; nought fresh can I invent;