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16 Death’s shafts fly thick;—Here falls the vilage-swain And there his pamper’d lord.—The cup goes round; And who so artful as to put it by? ’Tis long since death had the majority; Yet strange! the living lay it not to heart. See yonder maker of the dead man’s bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle, Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne’er stole A gentle tear; with mattoc in his hand Digs thro’ whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.—Scarce a skull’s cast up, But well he knows its Owner, and can tell Some passage of his life.—Thus hand in hand The sot has walk’d with Death twice twenty years; And yet, ne’er Yonker on the green laughs louder, Or clubs a smuttier tale:—When Drunkards meet, None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand More willing to his cup.—Poor wretch! he minds not That soon some trusty Brother of the trade Shall do for him what he has done for thousands.

On this side, and on that, men see their friends Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out Into fantastic schemes which the long Livers In the world’s hale and undegenerate days, Could scarce have leisure for.—Fools that we are, Never to think of Death and of ourselves At the same time: as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours—Oh! more than sottish For creatures of a Day, in gamesome mood, To frolic on Eternity’s dark brink Unapprehensive; when, for ought we know The very first swoln Surge shall sweep us in. Think we, or think we not, Time hurries on With a resistless unremitting stream; Yet treads more soft than e’er did midnight-thief, That slides his hand under the Miser’s pillow And carries off his prize.—What is this World?