L. M.

The vanity of creatures; or, No rest on earth.

Man has a soul of vast desires,

He burns within with restless fires;

Tossed to and fro, his passions fly

From vanity to vanity.

In vain on earth we hope to find

Some solid good to fill the mind;

We try new pleasures, but we feel

The inward thirst and torment still.

So when a raging fever burns,

We shift from side to side by turns,

And 'tis a poor relief we gain,

To change the place, but keep the pain.

Great God, subdue this vicious thirst,

This love to vanity and dust;

Cure the vile fever of the mind,

And feed our souls with joys refined.