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When ſelf-eſteem, or other's adulation,
Would cunningly perſuade us we were ſomething
Above the common level of our kid;
The Grave gainſays the ſmooth complexion'd ſlat'ry,
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.
Beauty ——thou pretty play-thing, dear deceit,
That ſteals so ſoftly over the ſtripling's heart,
And gives it a new pulſe, unknown before,
The Grave diſcredits thee ——thy charms expung'd,
Thy roſes faded, and thy lilies ſoil'd,
What haſt thou more to boaſt of? ——Will thy lovers
Flock round thee now, and gaze to do thee homage?
Methinks I ſee thee with the head low-laid;
Whilſt surfeited upon thy damaſk cheek
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd,
Riots unſcar'd. For this, was all thy caution?
For this, thy painful labours at thy glaſs?
T'improve thoſe charms, and keep them in repair,
For which the ſpoiler thanks thee no? ——Foul feeder,
Coarſe fare and carrion pleaſe thee full as well,
And leave as keen a relish on the ſense.
Look how the fair one weeps! ——the conſcious tears
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flow'rs:
Honeſt effuſion! ——the ſwoln heart in vain
Works hard to put a gloſs on its distreſs.
Strength too ——thou ſurly, and leſs gentle boaſt
Of thoſe that laugh loud at the village-ring,
A fit of common ſickness pulls thee down
With greater eaſe than o'er thou didſt the stripling,
That raſhly dar'd thee to th' unequal ſight——
What groan was that I heard? ——Deep groan indeed!
With anguiſh heavy laden ——let me trace it——
From yonder bed it comes, where the ſtrong man,
By ſtronger arm be labour'd, gaſps for breath,
Like a hard-hunted beaſt. How his great heart
Beats thick! ——his roomy cheſt by far too ſcant
