V Mon. July [1747] hath xxxi days.

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 expireBetween Satiety and fierce Desire.