V Mon. July [1747] hath xxxi days.

By Benjamin Franklin Benjamin Franklin
Men drop so fast, ere Life’s mid Stage we tread,
Few know so many Friends alive as dead;
Yet, as immortal, in our uphill Chace,
We press coy Fortune with unslacken’d Pace;
Our ardent Labours for the Toy we seek,
Join Night to Day, and Sunday to the Week,
Our very Joys are anxious, and expire
Between Satiety and fierce Desire.

Discover this poem’s context and related poetry, articles, and media.

Poet Benjamin Franklin

Subjects Living, Death, Jobs & Working, Activities

Poetic Terms Couplet

Report a problem with this poem

Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

This poem has learning resources.

This poem is good for children.

This poem has related video.

This poem has related audio.