ought but death

For as the grass by travelers

Is trodden on the ground

So Death shall tread you underfoot

And all your joys confound

All in whose Nostrils was the Breath of Life, of all that was in the dry Land, died.

Woe, grievous Woe, to all who now

In this vile World abide;

For Times await you big with Grief,

And every Ill beside.

Though now to you a plenteous Share

Of Fortune’s Gifts may fall,

Pale Death will be, or soon or late,

A Visitant to all.