Then we are sensible, too late,
'Tis no advantage to be Rich or Great:
For all the fulsom Pride, and Pageantry of State,
No Consolation brings.
Riches and Honours, then are useless things,
Tasteless, or bitter all;
And, like the Book which the Apostle eat,
To the ill-judging Palate sweet,
But turn at last to Nauseousness and Gall.
Nothing will then our drooping Spirits chear,
But the remembrance of good Actions past.
Virtue's a Joy that will for ever last,
And makes pale Death less terrible appear;
Takes out his baneful Sting, and palliates our Fear.
In the dark Anti-Chamber of the Grave
What wou'd we give, ev'n all we have,
All that our Cares, and Industry had gain'd,
All that our Fraud, our Policy, our Art obtain'd,
Cou'd we recal those fatal Hours again,
Which we consum'd in sensless Vanities,
Ambitious Follies, and Luxurious Ease;
For then they urge our Terrors, and increase our Pain.