Why, Lysidas, shou’d Man be vain, 
   If bounteous heav’n has made him great? 
Why look, with insolent disdain, 
   On those undeck’d with wealth and state?

Can splendid robes, or beds of down,
   Or costly gems to deck the hair; 
Can all the glories of a crown, 
  Give health, or smooth the brow of care?

The sceptered prince, the burden’d slave,
   The humble and the haughty die,
The poor, the rich, the base, the brave, 
   In dust without distinction lye.

Go, search the tombs where monarchs rest,
   Who once the richest glories wore,
Fled is that grandeur they possess’t,
   And all their greatness is no more. 

So glides the meteor thro’ the sky,
   And sweeps along a gilded train. 
But when its short-liv’d beauties die,
   Dissolves to common air again.