Sack stately towns, silk banners spread,
Gallop their coursers o'er the dead?
Far more than this? and all to sway
20But till those sands shall glide away.
For when the bubble world shall fly
With stretch'd-out plumes, when the brisk eye
Shall close with anguish, sink with tears,
And th' angels' trumpets pierce our ears,
What's haughty man, or those fine things,
Which Heaven calls men, though men style kings?