 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
PRIDE OF WEALTH.
Proud soul! put off thy pride, thy pride of place,The purple and fine linen of thy high
And palmy state, which hide Humanity.
Put on, for once, the lowly garb of grace,
Humility, in thy esteem as base
As sackcloth and as ashes; physic thy
Proud stomach with sight of mortality,
And lift the mask which hides its and thy face!
Go strip thee naked, and thyself behold
In that plain-spoken glass, and therein see
With thy own eyes what thou hast ne'er been told.
Poor forkèd thing; thou mere anatomie!
Thou dead-alive, mummy in cloth of gold!
Go, prick thee with a pin—feel and flesh be!
| Stones from The Quarry | |