Classic Poem

Gold or iv'ry's not intended
For this little house of mine,
Nor Hymettian arches, bended
On rich Afric pillars, shine.
For a court I've no ambition,
As not Attalus his heir,
Nor make damsels of condition
Spin me purple for my wear.
But for truth and wit respected,
I possess a copious vein,
So that rich men have affected
To be number'd of my train.
With my Sabine field contented,
Fortune shall be dunn'd no more;
Nor my gen'rous friend tormented
To augment my little store.
One day by the next's abolish'd,
Moons increase but to decay;
You place marbles to be polish'd
Ev'n upon your dying day.
Death unheeding, though infirmer,
On the sea your buildings rise,
While the Baian billows murmur,
That the land will not suffice.
What tho' more and more incroaching,
On new boundaries you press,
And in avarice approaching,
Your poor neighbours dispossess;
The griev'd hind his gods displaces,
In his bosom to convey,
And with dirty ruddy faces
Boys and wife are driven away.
Yet no palace grand and spacious
Does more sure its lord receive,
Than the seat of death rapacious,
Whence the rich have no reprieve.
Earth alike to all is equal,
Whither would your views extend?
Kings and peasants in the sequel
To the destin'd grave descend.
There, tho' brib'd, the guard infernal
Would not shrewd Prometheus free;
There are held in chains eternal
Tantalus, and such as he.
There the poor have consolation
For their hard laborious lot;
Death attends each rank and station,
Whether he is call'd or not.