The Whim

Why so serious, why so grave?

Man of business, why so muddy?

Thy self from chance thou canst not save

With all thy care and study.

Look merrily then, and take thy repose;

For 'tis to no purpose to look so forlorn,

Since the World was as bad, before thou wer't born,

And when it will mend who knows?

And a thousand years hence 'tis all one,

If thou lay'st on a Dunghil, or sat'st on a Throne,

To be troubled to be sad,

Carking Mortal 'tis a folly,

For a pound of pleasure's not so bad

As an ounce of Melancholly:

Since all our lives long we travel towards Death

Let us rest us sometimes, and bait by the way;

'Tis but dying at last; in our race let us stay,

And we shan't be so soon out of breath.

Sit the Comedy out, and that done,

When the Play's at an end, let the Curtain fall down.