BAXTER'S POEMS. 137 May they but a sick mortal lust fulfil, Get money, houses, land, and large revenues, Look big, and make all stoop to their proud will; Feast, drink, and play, and keep a great retinue . This is the dreaming happiness of fools, Life spent for this, and H€av'n for this is lost : And this ~s all for wl\ich they sell their souls, A fool's-cap purchas'd ,at the dearest cost. All this is done in the known way to death, They have not the least hope but die they must : They are not sure to fetch another breath, They know their pamper'd flesh will soon be dust . Their pomp and wealth for which they God forsake, Yea, tho' their streets with silver they could pave; All the vexations, strife, and stir they make, They know is but in passing to the grave. Were they but foll,owing another's course, Such going towards a grave would be a shame ; But when 'tis towards their own, it is far worse, A madness which doth want a proper name. Sheep know not when death's near, yet live in peace : Birds teed and sing in peace, together got ; Man always knows his life will shortly cease, Yet madly lives as if he knew it not. But when death comes they are surpris'd with fear; As if till then they knew not they must die ; Departing wealth and life, their hearts then tear, <?how the case is chang'd when death seems nigh! How sad doth Dives look ! how deep he groans 1 His mammon-god now will not hear his cries ;
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTcyMjk=