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Alas! how ſwift the Days of Man paſs by:
Swifter then Weaver's Shuttle do they fly:
As foon as Death doth end his Days, ſo ſoon
Man muſt appear before the great Tribune,
Death will no Favour to a King afford,
Nor Difference make 'twixt Beggar and a Lord;
Beauty nor Riches, Favour will obtain,
He'll take no Bribes to mitigate their Pain,
Nor Florid Language can him ſatisfie,
For Death will tell him that he's born to die;
No Difference with Age and Youth he makes,
But each alike of Death participates.
You find Methuſalem by Death was told,
That die he muſt though he was ne'er ſo old;
Like Fruit when almoſt ripe, Storms can it ſhake,
So Youth when almoſt Man, Death may him take.
Search you Death's Lime Pits, and you'll find therein
As many young Steers, as the ox's Skin.
Of all Things here certain unto Man's Eye,
Nothings' more certain than he's born to die.
The Sinner truſting to bis Riches.
And yet how proud's a Man this ſide the Grave,
As if he never ſhould an Exit have!
Boaſting, poor Worm, of an uncertain World,
His buſie carping Thoughts with care are hurl'd,
'Till wealthy grown, proud of his Bags of Treaſures
He truſts in Riches, taking all the Pleaſure,
His Heart cap wiſh for; nay, he does controul
The Checks of Conſcience to his precious Soul:
Says to himſelf, Soul take this Eaſe and ſpend
Thy Time in Mirth, ne'er think 'twill have an End.
Thus, thus the Sinner does abuſe his God,
And chooſes Vice inſtead of Virtues Road:
He Swears and Damns, and imprecates God's Wrath,
To ſtrike him Dead ; but ah! to Death he's loath.
He damns; his very Soul, is it not juſt,
That
