Into a bottomless pit, or consigned
To Hell, as sport for devils there confined.
How unless from old clay could new be born?
Dust we were, and must, dust to dust, return;
Millions before have fallen to it; thus
Will numberless worse, better, fall like us!
New pots from old—
just that is Nature’s view;
Still the old stuff, although the style be new.
—And Man the stuff; no scrap of Self his own;