Imprison'd in this body's mould'ring clay?
Ere long to poor six foot of earth confin'd,
Whose bones must crumble at the fatal day.
III.
Titles and pedigrees, what are they to me,
10Or honour gain'd by our forefathers' toil,
The sport of Fate, whose gaudiest pageantry
Lethe will wash out, dark Oblivion soil?
IV.
Why then, my soul, who fain wouldst be at ease,