1 In vain the wealthy Mortals toil,
And heap their shining Dust in vain,
Look down and scorn the humble Poor,
And boast their lofty Hills of Gain.
2 Their golden Cordials cannot ease
Their pained Hearts or acking Heads,
Nor fright nor bribe approaching Death
From glittering Roofs and downy Beds.
3 The ling'ring the unwilling Soul
The dismal Summons must obey,
And bid a long, a sad Farewell
To the pale Lump of lifeless Clay.
4 Thence they are huddled to the Grave,
Where Kings and Slaves have equal Thrones,
Their Bones without Distinction lie
Amongst the Heap of meaner Bones.
|First Line:||In vain the wealthy Mortals toil|