And rouse that sense, and straight we are awake. Then death to us, and death's anxiety, Is less than nothing, if a less could be; For then our atoms, which in order lay, Are scattered from their heap, and puffed away, And never can return into their place, When once the pause of life has left an empty space. And, last, suppose great Nature's voice should call To thee, or me, or any of us all,-- What dost thou mean, ungrateful wretch, thou vain, Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain, And sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more? For, if thy life were pleasant heretofore, If all the bounteous blessings I could give } Thou hast enjoyed, if thou hast known to live, } And pleasure not leaked through thee like a sieve; } Why dost thou not give thanks as at a plenteous feast, Crammed to the throat with life, and rise and take thy rest? But, if my blessings thou hast thrown away, If undigested joys passed through, and would not stay, Why dost thou wish for more to squander still? If life be grown a load, a real ill, And I would all thy cares and labours end, Lay down thy burden, fool, and know thy friend. To please thee, I have emptied all my store; } I can invent, and can supply no more, } But run the round again, the round I ran before. } Suppose thou art not broken yet with years, Yet still the self-same scene of things appears, And would be ever, couldst thou ever live; For life is still but life, there's nothing new to give. What can we plead against so just a bill? We stand convicted, and our cause goes ill. But if a wretch, a man oppressed by fate, Should beg of nature to prolong his date, She speaks aloud to him with more disdain,-- Be still, thou martyr fool, thou covetous of pain. But if an old decrepit sot lament,-- What, thou! she cries, who hast outlived content! Dost thou complain, who hast enjoyed my store? But this is still the effect of wishing more. Unsatisfied with all that nature brings; Loathing the present, liking absent things; From hence it comes, thy vain desires, at strife Within themselves, have tantalized thy life, And ghastly death appeared before thy sight, Ere thou hast gorged thy soul and senses with delight. Now leave those joys, unsuiting to thy age, To a fresh comer, and resign the stage.-- Is Nature to be blamed if thus she chide? No, sure; for 'tis her business to provide Against this ever-changing frame's decay, New things to come, and old to pass away. One being, worn, another being makes; Changed, but not lost; for nature gives and takes: New matter must be found for things to come, And these must waste like those, and follow nature's doom. All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot,