1 Why doth the Man of Riches grow,
To Insolence and Pride,
To see his Wealth and Honours flow,
With ev'ry rising Tide?

2 [Why doth he treat the Poor with Scorn,
Made of the self-same Clay,
And boast as though his Flesh was born
Of better Dust than they?]

3 Not all his Treasures can procure
His Soul a short Reprieve,
Redeem from Death one guilty Hour,
Or make his Brother live.

4 [Life is a Blessing can't be sold,
The Ransom is too high;
Justice will ne'er be brib'd with Gold,
That Man may never die.]

5 He sees the Brutish and the Wise,
The Tim'rous and the Brave,
Quit their Possessions, close their Eyes,
And hasten to the Grave.

6 Yet 'tis his inward Thought and Pride,
"My House shall ever stand;
"And that my Name may long abide,
"I'll give it to my Land."

7 Vain are his Thoughts, his Hopes are lost,
How soon his Mem'ry dies!
His Name is written in the Dust,
Where his own Carcase lies.]

Pause.

8 This is the Folly of their Way;
And yet their Sons, as vain,
Approve the Words their Fathers say,
And act their Works again.

9 Men void of Wisdom, and of Grace,
If Honour raise them high,
Live like the Beast, a thoughtless Race,
And like the Beast they die.

10 [Laid in the Grave like silly Sheep,
Death feeds upon them there,
Till the last Trumpet breaks their Sleep,
In Terror and Despair.]