MAN, with the morn, begins his destin’d race,
Joy in his eyes, and pleasure in his face;
But oh! what rubs attend his setting days!
His limbs sore ache with hourly toil opprest,
Till wished for night restore him peaceful rest.
Thus man for ever labours and decays,
Counting but few, and those uneasy days.
He scarce a minute glories in his bloom,
So harsh is death’s inexorable doom,
So nigh, alas! the cradle and the tomb.
Printed in the Sheffield Register No. 296, 1 February 1793 (currently held in Sheffield University Library Special Collections)
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