Classic Poem

Said to be written by Swift , and assured me never was published.

Forbear , my dear friend, with fruitless desire,
Into truths, which are better conceal'd, to enquire;
Who anticipate care, their own pleasure destroy,
And invite disappointment who build upon joy;
Perhaps many years are allow'd you by fate,
Or next winter, perhaps, is the last of your date.
Let credulous fools, whom astrologers cheat,
Expect or despond, as those vary deceit;
All woes unforeseen we the easiest endure;
What avails to foresee, unless foresight could cure;
And from ills by such arts how can wretches be freed,
When that art must be false, or those ills be decreed:
Even now, while I write, time steals on thy youth,
And a moment's cut off from thy friendship and truth:
Then no more on hereafter thy wishes employ;
Who build on the future, the present destroy:
To- day 's all the treasure we mortals can boast;
For to- morrow 's not gain'd, and yesterday 's lost:
Then seize the swift blessing, enjoy the dear now,
And take, but not think, what hereafter'll bestow.