They, one and the other, composed are of clay,
And, if rightly I tell nature’s plan,
Take but the breath from them both quite away,
The pipe dies and so does the man:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe—and his life but smoke.
Thus I’m told by my pipe that to die is man’s lot,
And, sooner or later, die he must;
For when to the end of life’s journey he’s got,
Like a pipe that’s smoked out—he is dust: