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THE

R A M B L E R

Numb. 54. Saturday, September 22, 1750.

Truditur dies die,
Novæque pergunt interire lunæ.
Tu secanda marmora
Locas sub ipsum funus, et sepulchri
Immemor struis domos.

Hor.

Day presses on the heels of day,
And moons increase to their decay;
But you, with thoughtless pride elate,
Unconscious of impending fate,
Command the pillar'd dome to rise,
When lo! thy tomb forgotten lies.

Francis
To the RAMBLER
SIR,

IHAVE lately been called from a mingled life of business and amusement, to attend the last hours of an old friend; an office which has filled me, if not with melancholy, at least with serious reflections, and turned my thoughts towards the contemplation of those subjects, which, though of the utmost importance, and of indubitable certainty, are generally secluded from our regard, by the jollity of health, the hurry of employment, and even by the calmer diversions of

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