For life’s a flake of smoke at best,
And not as poet’s say, “a jest.”
Away with idle hopes and fears,
Cut short your days, and nights, and years;
When desp’rate grown, and hating life
Go off by water, rope, or knife.
Coffins to be shewn.
Then comes this tight-screw’d patent case,
The undertaker’s last embrace;
Fast lock’d in which, four feet in ground,