An Ode


How swift the Months and Years roll on!
How soon the Race of Life is run!
++Nor Youth, nor Piety, nor Age,
Can charm the Monster ruthless Death;
He points the dart, he stops the Breath,
++And drives us off the Stage.

The Prince, the Peasant, and the Slave,
Alike must fill the gaping Grave,
++Alike they all must go;
Cocytus they must ferry o’er,
To Earth they can return no more,
++But wander in the Shades below.

Thy prattling Babes, thy pleasing Wife,
And every other Joy of Life,
++The Rapture of thy Heart,
When the dire Sisters cut the twine,
Must stay behind, no longer thine,
++And thou, per Force, must part.

Thy youthful Heir shall laugh away,
And seek where all thy Treasures lay,
++And quaff thy generous Store;
Whate’er thou’st been intent to save,
He’ll spend and gamble o’er thy Grave,
++Till Death exerts his Power.