Hear the lecture we are reading,
’Tis, alas! the truth we tell.
Virgins, much, too much presuming
On your boasted white and red,
View us, late in beauty blooming,
Number’d now among the dead.
Sons of honour, fed on praises,
Fluttering high in fancied worth,
Lo! the fickle air, that raises,
Brings us down to parent earth.