Francis Beaumont (Фрэнсис Бомонт)

On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried--
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
Here 's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 

1. To My Friend Mr. John Fletcher, upon His Faithful Sheperdess
2. A Funeral Elegy on the Death of the Lady Penelope Clifton
3. The Glance
4. Mr. Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben Jonson
5. In Laudem Authoris

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1546

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