In vain she would her dowry boast,
Which clogged, with legacies, we never gain,
But with invaluable cost;
Which got, we never can retain,
But must the greatest part be lost,
To the great bubbles, age or chance, again.
'Tis vastly over-balanced by the jointure which we make,
In which our lives, our souls, our all is set at stake.
Like silly Indians, foolish we
With a known cheat a losing traffic hold;
Whilst led by an ill-judging eye,
We admire a trifling pageantry,
And merchandize our jewels and our gold,
For worthless glass and beads, or an exchange's frippery,
If we a while maintain the expensive trade,
Such mighty impost on the cargo's laid,
Such a vast custom to be paid,
We're forced at last like wretched bankrupts to give out,
Clapped up by death, and in eternal durance shut.
7
What art thou, but an empty shade
By the reflection of our actions made?
Thou, unlike others, never followest us alive;
But, like a ghost, walkest only after we are dead.
Posthumous toy! vain after-legacy!
Which only ours can be,
When we ourselves no more are we!
Fickle as vain! who dost on vulgar breath depend,
Which we by dear experience find
More changeable, more veering than the inconstant wind.
What art thou, gold, that cheat'st the miser's eyes?
Which he does so devoutly idolize;
For whom he all his rest and ease does sacrifice?
'Tis use alone can all thy value give,
And he from that no benefit can e'er receive.
