He lieth upon the bed of death,
And alone he pines away;
As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath,
And clay is mingled with clay;
No marble is there to mark the spot,
No flowret weeps o'er his tomb;
Unwept, unhonored, and forgot,
Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot—
The miser has gone to his doom!
Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealth