Classic Poem

Ill busi'd man! why should'st thou take such care
To lengthen out thy lifes short Kalendar?
When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon
Presents and acts thy execution.
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,
Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must dy.
Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we misse;
There is but one, and that one ever.