190 THE POEMS OF ANNE �And nicely kept th' Account of the expected Store: �When Death, at last, to either gave Release, �Making One's Pains, the Other's Longings cease ; �Who to the Grave must decently convey, �Ere he Possession takes the kindred Clay, �Which in a Coach was plac'd, wherein he rides, 10 �And so no Hearse, or following Train provides; �Rejecting Russel, who wou'd make the Charge �Of one dull tedious Day, so vastly Large. �When, at his Death the humble Man declar'd, �He wished thus privately to be Interr'd. �And now, the Luggage moves in solemn State, �And what it wants in Number, gains in Weight. �The happy Heir can scarce contain his Joy, �Whilst sundry Musings do his Thoughts employ, �How he shalt act, now Every thing's his Own, 20 �Where his Revenge, or Favour shall be shown ; �Then recollecting, draws a counterfeited Groan. �The Avenues, and Gardens shall be chang'd, �Already he the Furniture has ranged. �To ransack secret Draw'rs his Phancy flies, �Nor can th' appearing Wealth his Mind suffice. �Thus he an Age runs o'er betwixt the Porch �Of his Friend's House, and the adjacent Church: �Whilst the slow Driver, who no reck'ning kept �Of what was left, indulging Nature, slept; 30 �Till on a Bank, so high, the Wheel was borne �That in a Moment All must overturn: �Whilst the rich Heir now finds the giving Dead �Less weighty in his Gold, than in his Lead; �Which falling just on his contriving Breast, �Expell'd the Soul, leaving the corpse to rest �In the same Grave, intended for his Friend. �Then why shou'd We our Days in Wishes spend, �Which, ere we see fulfill' d, are often at an End? ��� �
