Plucked from the wing of human vanity,
Which makes us stoop from our aerial heights,
And, damped with omen of our own decease,
On drooping pinions of ambition lowered,
Just skim earth’s surface, ere we break it up;
O’er putrid earth to scratch a little dust,
And save the world a nuisance.
Young.
Heaven gives us friends to bless the present scene;
Resumes them to prepare us for the next.