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When self-esteem, or others adulation,
Would cunningly persuade us we were something
Above the common level of our kind;
The Grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flat'ry,
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.

Beauty—thou pretty play thing, dear deceit,
That steals so softly o'er 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 thy 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 then in repair,
For which the spoiler thanks the not. 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 e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dar'd thee to th' unequal fight:
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 belabour'd, gasps for breath,
Like a hard-haunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant