Proud _Troy_ herself (as all things must) Is crumbled into native dust; Is now a pasture, where the beast Strays for his vegetable feast, Old _Priam_'s royal palace now May couch the ox, the ass, the cow.-- _Rome_, city of imperial worth, The mighty mistress of the earth; _Rome_, that gave law to all the world, Is now to blank Destruction hurl'd!-- Is now a sepulchre, a tomb, To tell the stranger, "Here was _Rome_."-- View the _West Abbey_! there we see How frail a thing is royalty! Where crowns and sceptres worms supply, And kings and queens, like lumber lie. The _Tombs themselves_ are worn away, And own the empire of _Decay_, Mouldering like the royal dust, Which to preserve they have in trust. Nor has the _Marble_ more withstood The rage of _Time_, than _Flesh and Blood_! The _King of Stone_ is worn away, As well as is the _King of Clay_-- Here lies a _King without a Nose_, And there a _Prince without his Toes_; Here on her back a _Royal Fair_ Lies, but a little worse for wear; Those lips, whose touch cou'd almost turn Old age to youth, and make it burn; To which young kings were proud to kneel, Are kick'd by every Schoolboy's heel; Struck rudely by the _Showman's Wand_, And crush'd by every callous Hand: Here a _puissant Monarch_ frowns In menace high to rival Crowns; He threatens--but will do no harm-- Our _Monarch_ has not left an arm. Thus all _Things_ feel the gen'ral curse, _That all Things must with Time grow worse_. But your Philosophers will say, _Best Things grow worst when they decay_. And many facts they have at hand To prove it, shou'd you proofs demand. As if _Corruption_ shut her jaw, And scorn'd to cram her filthy maw, With aught but dainties rich and rare, And morsels of the choicest fare; As garden Birds are led to bite, Where'er the fairest fruits invite. If _Phoebus'_ rays too fiercely burn, The _richest Wines_ to _sourest_ turn: And they who living _highly fed_, Will breed a _Pestilence when dead_. Thus _Aldermen_, who at each Feast, Cram Tons of Spices from the East, Whose leading wish, and only plan, Is to learn how to _pickle Man_; Who more than vie with _AEgypt_'s art, And make themselves a _human Tart_, A _walking Pastry-Shop_, a _Gut_, Shambles by Wholesale to inglut; And gorge each high-concocted Mess The art of Cookery can dress: Yet spite of all, when _Death_ thinks fit To take them off, lest t' other bit Shou'd burst these _living Mummies_, able Neither to eat, nor quit the Table; Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout, To fetch them by the Shoulders out; Tho' living they were _Salt_ and _Spice_, The carcase is not over nice; And all may find, who have a _Nose_, _Dead Aldermen_ are not a rose.