Ah! Youth, how soon thy joys are flown!
The fond delights we scarcely own,
Ere sorrow dims each prospect fair;
And days and years are mark'd by care.

A while we wander to and fro,
'Twixt fancied joy and real woe;
The glare of pomp we idly prize,
While gay content far from us flies.

When hope her aid denies, at last
Reflection points to what is past;
And whispers oft, tho' oft in vain,
That pleasure's but the source of pain.