I kill with dropsy, phthisick, stone, and gout; RICH MAN. Proud Death, you see what awful sway I bear, Nay, men of greater rank I keep in awe DEATH. 'Tis very true, for why thy daring soul, Which never could endure the least controul, I'll thrust thee from this earthly tenement, And thou shalt to another world be sent. RICH MAN. What! must I die and leave a vast estate, Which, with my gold, I purchas'd but of late? Besides what I had many years ago?— What! must my wealth and I be parted so? If you your darts and arrows must let fly, DEATH I'll search no jails, but the right mark I'll hit; If you had all the world and ten times more, Yet die you must,—there's millions gone before; The greatest kings on earth yield and obey, And at my feet their crowns and sceptres lay: If crowned heads and right renowned peers Die in the prime and blossoms of their years, Can you suppose to gain a longer space? No! I will send you to another place. RICH MAN. Oh! stay thy hand and be not so severe, That I may them in lawful marriage give: Yet spare me for my little infants' sake. DEATH. If such a vain excuse as this might do, It would be long e'er mortals would go thro' The shades of death; for every man would find Something to say that he might stay behind. They'll find it is in vain with me to strive, RICH MAN. (Then with a groan he made this sad complaint): My heart is dying, and my spirits faint; Το my close chamber let me be convey'd; Farewell, false world, for thou hast me betray'd. Would I had never wrong'd the fatherless, Nor mourning widows when in sad distress; Would I had ne'er been guilty of that sin, Would I had never known what gold had been; For by the same my heart was drawn away To search for gold: but now this very day, I find it is but like a slender reed, Which fails me most when most I stand in need; For, woe is me! the time is come at last, Now I am on a bed of sorrow cast, C Where in lamenting tears I weeping lie, Let me not die before my peace be made! DEATH. Thou hast not many minutes here to stay, RICH MAN. I'll water now with tears my dying bed, To die and leave this world I could be free. False world! false world, farewell! farewell! adieu! For when upon a dying bed we lie, Sweet babes, I little thought the other day, A painful life I ready am to leave, V. A Dialogue betwirt an Grciseman and Death. TRANSCRIBED from a printed copy in the British Museum. The idea of Death being employed to execute a writ, reminds the editor of an epitaph which he met with in a village church-yard at the foot of the Wrekin, in Shropshire, and which commenced thus: "The King of Heaven a warrant got, And seal'd it without delay, And he did give the same to Death, For him to serve straightway." &c. &c. UPON a time when Titan's steeds were driven To drench themselves beneath the western heaven; |