Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit,
Or, what is worse, be left by it?
Why dost thou load thyself, when thou'rt to fly,
O man ordained to die?
II.
Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high,
Thou who art underground to lie?
Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see;
For death, alas? is sowing thee.
III.
Suppose, thou fortune couldst to tameness bring,
And clip or pinion her wine;
Suppose thou couldst on fate so far prevail
As not to cut off thy entail.
IV.
Yet death at all that subtlety will laugh,
Death will that foolish gardener mock
Who does a slight and annual plant engraff,
Upon a lasting stock.
V.
Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem;
A mighty husband thou wouldst seem;
Fond man! like a bought slave, thou, all the while
Dost but for others sweat and toil.
VI.
Officious fool! that needs must meddling be
In business that concerns not thee!
For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares,
Thou deal'st in other men's affairs.
VII.
Even aged men, as if they truly were
Children again, for age prepare,
Pro visions for long travail they design
In the last point of their short line.
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