Classic Poem

Folly, Vice and Pride,
My Pen must deride,
Where-ever they are known to reign;
Tho' with Fortune blest,
And in Titles drest,
It shall ne'er damp the Critic Strain:
I despise the Set,
Who, themselves forget,
And are of Fortune's Favours vain,

2.

View our Royal King,
See all Virtues spring
Within his lovely sacred Breast;
Nature's Favourite,
Form'd Love to excite,
With Fortune's Bounties amply blest:
His Example's fair,
Wou'd his Subjects were
Of his Humility possest!

3.

But with Pride o'er-run,
The distress'd they shun,
As tho' their Woes contagious prove;
Get but Money, then
You're a Saint again,
Their Scorn immediately seems Love:
But in Sorrow drest,
They your Sight detest,
You can't their frozen Pity move.

4.

What is Man, I pray?
Was n't he form'd of Clay?
And shall he not to it return?
Tho' he vaunts it here,
Soon he'll disappear,
His future Lodging, a cold Urn:
Folly, Vice and Pride,
Can't the Victim hide,
Doom'd endless Ages, Life to mourn.