The Works of Mr. John Oldham :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alas! dear Friend, alas! time hastes away,
Nor is it in our pow'r to bribe its stay:
The rolling years with constant motion run,
Lo! while I speak, the present minute's gone,
And following hours urge the foregoing on.
'Tis not thy Wealth, 'tis not thy Power,
'Tis not thy Piety can thee secure:
They're all too feeble to withstand
Grey Hairs, approaching Age, and thy avoidless end.

When once thy fatal Glass is run,
When once thy utmost Thread is spun,
'Twill then be fruitless to expect Reprieve:
Could'st thou ten thousand Kingdoms give
In purchase for each hour of longer life,
They would not buy one gasp of breath,
Not move one jot inexorable Death.

2.

All the vast stock of humane Progeny,
Which now like swarms of Insects crawl
Upon the Surface of Earth's spacious Ball,
Must quit this Hillock of Mortality,
And in its Bowels buried lie.
The mightiest King, and proudest Potentate,
In spight of all his Pomp, and all his State,
Must pay this necessary Tribute unto Fate.
The busie, restless Monarch of the times, which now
Keeps such a pother, and so much ado
To fill Gazettes alive,
And after in some lying Annal to survive;

Ev'n He, ev'n that great mortal Man must die,
And stink, and rot as well as thou, and I,
As well as the poor tatter'd Wretch, that begs his bread,
And is with scraps out of the common Basket fed.

3.

In vain from dangers of the bloudy Field we keep,
In vain we escape
The sultry Line, and stormy Cape,
And all the treacheries of the faithless Deep:
In vain for health to forein Countries we repair,
And change our English for Mompellier Air,
In hope to leave our fears of dying there:
In vain with costly far fetch'd Drugs we strive
To keep the wasting vital Lamp alive:
In vain on Doctors feeble Art rely;
Against resistless Death there is no remedy:
Both we, and they for all their skill must die,
And fill alike the Bedrols of Mortality.

4.

Thou must, thou must resign to Fate, my Friend,
And leave thy House, thy Wife, and Family behind:
Thou must thy fair, and goodly Mannors leave,
Of these thy Trees thou shalt not with thee take,
Save just as much as will thy Coffin make:
Nor wilt thou be allow'd of all thy Land, to have,
But the small pittance of a six-foot Grave.
Then shall thy prodigal young Heir
Lavish the Wealth, which thou for many a year
Hast hoarded up with so much pains and care:
Then shall he drain thy Cellars of their Stores,
Kept sacred now as vaults of buried Ancestors:
Shall set th' enlarged Butts at liberty,
Which there close Pris'ners under durance lie,
And wash these stately Floors with better Wine
Than that of consecrated Prelates when they dine.