X Mon. December [1744] hath xxxi days.

This World's an Inn, all Travellers are we;And this World's Goods th'Accommodations be.Our Life is nothing but a Winter's Day;Some only break their Fast, and so away.Others stay Dinner, and depart full fed.The deepest Age but sups and goes to bed.He's most in Debt that lingers out the Day;Who dies betimes has less and less to pay.