'Tis true, our life is but a long disease,
Made up of reall pain and seeming ease;
You stars, who these entangled fortunes give,
O tell me why
It is so hard to dy,
Yet such a task to live?
If with some pleasure we our griefs betray,
It costs us dearer then it can repay:
For time or fortune all things so devours;
Our hopes are cross'd,
Or els the object lost,
Ere we can call it ours.