And from your mould'ring thrones look down,
40Your greatness cannot long endure,
The King of Terrors claims you for his own;
You are but tributaries to his dreadful crown:
Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August,
Are only high and mighty epithets for dust.
In vain, in vain so high
Our tow'ring expectations fly,
While th' blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay,
Appear, and promise fruit, then fade away.