Rich with the spoils of time.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

We frolic while 'tis May.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.