Ill News Is Wing'd With Fate, And

Time Glides With Undiscover'd Haste; The Future But A Length Behind The Past.

Bankrupt Of Life, Yet Prodigal Of Ease.

Go Miser Go, For Money Sell Your Soul. Trade Wares For Wares And Trudge From Pole To Pole, So Others May Say When You Are Dead And Gone. See What A Vast Estate He Left His Son.

Fattened In Vice, So Callous And So Gross, He Sins And Sees Not, Senseless Of His Loss.

Dreams Are But Interludes, Which Fancy Makes; When Monarch Reason Sleeps, This Mimic Wakes.