To Die Is Landing On Some Distant

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

Riches Cannot Rescue From The Grave, Which Claims Alike The Monarch And The Slave.

No King Nor Nation One Moment Can Retard The Appointed Hour.

To So Perverse A Sex All Grace Is Vain.

Thoughts Cannot Form Themselves In Words So Horrid As Can Express My Guilt.