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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou ‘rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain’d to die?

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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
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Nay, in death’s hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove’s.
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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou ‘rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain’d to die?
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Art Dost Heap Left Lying Man Wealth Worse
The world’s a scene of changes.
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Our yesterday’s to-morrow now is gone, And still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrow draw out all our store, Till the exhausted well can yield no more.
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow’st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For death, alas! is reaping thee.
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All this world’s noise appears to me a dull, ill-acted comedy!
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Let’s banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belong to-morrow.
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