Of death and nothing else? You hear
Each friend we jeered at, send the jeer
Back to ourselves with good effect—
"There were my beetles to collect!
My box—a trifle, I confess,
But here I hold it, ne'ertheless!"
Poor idiots, (let us pluck up heart
And answer) we, the better part
Have chosen, though 't were only hope,—
Nor envy moles like you that grope