Nor deems of ruin in so clear a light:
He tempts his fate, and courts a glorious doom,
A bright destruction, and a shining tomb.
Tickell.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The path of glory leads but to the grave.
Gray.
O, that mine eye might closed be,