O fool,--of short-lived goods possest,--

In mere uncertainties to rest;

From your full barns and bags of gold,

To dream of slowly growing old;--

Can you bribe death, with all your store,

To respite you one moment more?

Tell me, my soul, is there no art,

To arm against death's sudden dart?

Has gracious Heaven contrived no way

Of lengthening here our mortal stay,

Or, on this momentaneous stage,

In a short time to live an age?

The infants from the font who fly,

Unsullied, to the joys on high,

Live longer than obdurate men,

Who sin to threescore years and ten:--

We those dear moments only live,

Which, we to GOD devoutly give.