Where th' injured man may fortify

'Gainst the invasions of the great:

Where the lean slave, who th' oar doth ply,

Soft as his admiral may lie.

Great statist! 'tis your doom,

Though your designs swell high and wide,

To be contracted in a tomb!

And all your happy cares provide

But for your heir authórized pride.

Nor shall your shade delight

I' th' pomp of your proud obsequies:

And should the present flattery write

A glorious epitaph, the wise

Will say, 'The poet's wit here lies.'

How reconciled to fate

Will grow the aged villager,

When he shall see your funeral state!

Since death will him as warm inter

As you in your gay sepulchre.

The great decree of GOD

Makes every path of mortals lead

To this dark common period.

For what by-ways soe'er we tread,

We end our journey 'mong the dead.