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¶ On Mortality.
WHen a rich Worldling dies, first question is,
How Rich he di'd; not, is he gone to Bl ss?
Many make answer, or in love or hate,
Rich, very Rich, he lest a good Estate;
Not well considering 'tshould be understood
Many Estates are greater far than good.
Alas, poor man, his eyes are clos'd with sleep,
And his Inheritors rejoyce, not weep.
He by Oppression heapt up ill got Wealth,
And they carouze it to their Ladies health.
Perhaps when living he undid so many,
He scarce hath Tear, so much as Sigh from any.
The Poor, instead of Prayers (so much the worse)
Attend his Corps with Clamours, and a Curse.
What fruit hath man in all these things? his breath
Is spent, his labour too concludes in death:
His Mamon fails him, all his stores so great
Will witness 'gainst him at the Judgment-seat.
He leaves to others Principal and Use,
But that which •…•…ollows him is the abuse.
He casts about to compass his by-ends,
Himself to ruine to inrich his friends:
So that each bag might make this Motto good,
If fixt thereon, This is the price of Blood.
Hark then, my Soul, bestow thy fortunes hoard,
Upon the Members of thy blessed Lord.
Give whilst thou iv'st, 'tis safe to do so; for
Thine eye is then thine own executor.
The Poor will praise thee in some pious Ditty,
And that may help, for Prayer can save a City.