’Tis not thy wealth, ’tis not thy power,
’Tis not thy piety can thee secure;
They’re all too feeble to withstand
Gray hairs, approaching age, and thy avoidless end.
When once thy 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,