TO THE SOUL .

Thirty — (the account's your own) —
Years of precious life are flown;
Still your childhood you retain,
Thoughtless, prodigal, and vain.
Canst thou on the wheels rely
That with Fortune's chariot fly?
Kings , of memorable reigns,
Live in marble , for their pains;
Heroes perish; and the Fair
Melt into congenial air:
What is life, whose mirrour pleases,
But a shifted flight of breezes?