On the Terrors that beset the Path of Pleasure

In happiness men fear disease, the haughty shrink from scorn,
The rich, the wise, the men of might, dread princes, critics, foes;
Envy blights virtue, eld good looks, death threatens all things born,
The hermit's humble life alone gives undisturbed repose.

For life fast slipping from my hold
I've born the last and worst disgrace--
I've sat 'mongst wealthy fools, and told
My merits with unblushing face.

We speak with awe of glorious kings, of haughty lords, and knights,
Of courtiers ranged in glittering rows, of triumphs and of fights,
Of tuneful bards that hymn their praise: who honours as he ought
That "eloquent and mighty Death" that sweeps them into nought?