Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes,
As we the fatal sisters could out-spin,
And, big with life’s futurities, expire.
Not even Philander had bespoke his shroud;
Nor had he cause; a warning was denied. 385
How many fall as sudden, not as safe!
As sudden, though for years admonish’d home.
Of human ills the last extreme beware,
Beware, Lorenzo! a slow sudden death.
How dreadful that deliberate surprise!