’Tis ruin!—Why, ’tis more by five
Than e’er convey’d him while alive.
And look, what follows!—more and more
Profusion, in a Coach and Four!
Such waste of what thou liv’dst to save,
Might break the quiet of thy Grave.
In what slow pomp the Rogues advance,
Courting, as ’twere, Extravagance!
O! the vast charge of every night!
They revel, and set nothing by ’t;