When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.

Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;

Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.

To-morrow's falser than the former day;

Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest

With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.

Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,

Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;

And from the dregs of life think to receive

What the first sprightly running could not give.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Aurengzebe. Act iv. Sc. 1.