Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/153

Rh Even he, even that great mortal man must die, And stink, and rot, as well as thou and I, As well as the poor tattered wretch that begs his bread, And is with scraps out of the common basket fed. In vain from dangers of the bloody field we keep, In vain do we escape The sultry Line, and stormy Cape, And all the treacheries of the faithless deep; In vain for health to foreign countries we repair, And change our English for Montpellier air, In hope to leave our fears of dying there; In vain with costly far-fetched drugs we strive To keep the wasting vital lamp alive; In vain on doctor's feeble art rely; Against resistless death there is no remedy. Both we and they, for all their skill, must die, And fill alike the bead-rolls of mortality. Thou must, thou must resign to fate, my friend, And leave thy house, thy wife, and family behind; Thou must thy fair and goodly manors leave, Of these thy trees thou shalt not with thee take, Save just as much as will thy coffin make; Nor wilt thou be allowed of all thy land, to have But the small pittance of a six-foot grave. Then shall thy prodigal young heir Lavish the wealth, which thou for many a year Hast hoarded up with so much pains and care; Then shall he drain thy cellars of their stores, Kept sacred now as vaults of buried ancestors; Shall set the enlargèd butts at liberty, Which there close prisoners under durance lie, And wash these stately floors with better wine Than that of consecrated prelates when they dine.