Shed generous tears on wretches born to die;

Their fate deploring, to forget our own!

What all the pomps and triumphs of our lives,

But legacies in blossom? Our lean soil,

Luxuriant grown, and rank in vanities,

From friends interr’d beneath; a rich manure!

Like other worms, we banquet on the dead;

Like other worms, shall we crawl on, nor know 88

Our present frailties, or approaching fate?

Lorenzo! such the glories of the world!