Go to the dull church-yard and see
Those hillocks of mortality,
Where proudest Man is only found
30By a small swelling in the ground.
What crowds of carcases are made
Slaves to the pickaxe and the spade!
Dig but a foot, or two, to make
A cold bed, for thy dead friend's sake,
'Tis odds but in that scantling room
Thou robb'st another of his tomb,