Classic Poem

A monster, in a course of vice grown old,
Leaves to his gaping heir his ill-gained gold:
Straight breathes his bust, straight are his virtues shown,
Their date commencing with the sculptured stone.
If on his specious marble we rely,
Pity a worth like his should ever die!
If credit to his real life we give,
Pity a wretch like him should ever live!