Classic Poem

Hence, ye profane! I hate you all;
Both the great vulgar, and the small.
To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold,
Nor yet discolored with the love of gold,
That jaundice of the soul,
(Which makes it look so gilded and so foul,)
To you, ye very few, these truths I tell;
The Muse inspires my song; hark, and observe it well.
We look on men, and wonder at such odds
Twixt things that were the same by birth;
We look on kings, as giants of the earth,
These giants are but pigmies to the gods.
The humblest bush and proudest oak
Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke.
Beauty and strength, and wit, and wealth, and power,
Have their short flourishing hours;
vAnd love to see themselves, and smile,
And joy in their preiminence awhile:
Ev'n so in the same land,
Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers, together stand;
Alas! death mows down all with an impartial hand.