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 expire Between Satiety and fierce Desire.