In gorgeous tombs, in sacred cells secure?
Do you not see, those prostrate heaps betrayed
Your fathers bones, and could not keep them sure?
And will you trust deceitful stones fair laid,
And think they will be to your honour truer?
No, no, unsparing time will proudly send
A warrant unto wreck, that with one frown
Will all these mockeries of vain-glory rend,
And make them as before, ungrac’d, unknown.
Poor idle honours that can ill defend