Verse 1How uncertain is the State
Of that greatnesse we adore,
When Ambitiously we sore,
And have ta’en the glorious height,
’Tis but Ruine gilded o’re,
To enslave us to our fate,
Whose false Delight is easier got, then kept,
Content ne’er on its gaudy Pillow slept.
Verse 2Then how fondly do we try,
With such superstitious care,
To build Fabricks in the Ayr?
Or seek safety in that sky,
Where no Stars but Meteors are,
That portend a ruine nigh?
And having reacht the object of our ayme,
We find it but a Pyramid of flame.
