John Safford.
Crushed as a moth beneath Thy hands
We moulder back to dust.
Our feeble frames cannot withstand
And all our beauty's lost.
This mortal life decays apace
How soon the bubble's broke.
Adam and all his numerous race
Are vanity and smoke.
John Daby.
Tis but a few whole days amount
To three score years and ten;
And all beyond that short account
Is sorrow toil and pain.
Our vitals with laborious strife
Bear up the crazy load,
And drag these poor remains of life
Along the toilsome road.
Boston
. (Granary Burying Ground.)
Here I lie bereft of breath
Because a cough carried me off;
Then a coffin they carried me off in.
Dorchester
.
This world's a city, full of crooked streets;
And Death the market place where all men meets.
If life were merchandize that men could buy
The rich would live and none but poor would die.