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By letting out their persons by the hour,
To mimid sorrow, when the hearts's not sad.
How rich the trappings! now they're all unfurl'd,
And glittering in the sun; triumphant entries
Of Conquerors, and Coronation-pomps,
In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Retard th' unwieldy show, whilst from the casements
And houses tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd,
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a Carcase
That's fall'n into disgrace, and in the nostirl
Smells horrible?— Ye undertakers tell us,
'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty stir?— 'Tis wisely done;
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.

Proud Lineage, now how little thou appear'st
Below the envy of the private man.
Honour, that middlesome officious ill,
Pursues thee ev'n to death; nor there stops short.
Strange persecution when the Grave itself
Is no protection from rude suffrance.

Absurd to think to over-reach the Grave,
And from the wreck of names to rescue ours.
The best concerted schemes men lay for fame,
Die fast away: only themselves die faster.
The far-fam'd Sculptor, and the laurell'd Bard,
Those bold ensurancers of deathless fame,
Supply their little feeble aids in vain.
The tapering Pyramid, the Egyptian's pride
And wonder of the world; whose spiky top
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long out-liv'd
The angry shaking of the winter's storm:
Yet spent at last by th' injuries of heaven,
Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years,