Classic Poem

What a compound is life, of vice, virtue, and folly,
This hour, roaring mad, and the next, melancholy;
Now, praying demurely at church, with the vicar,
Now swearing and wrangling, for wenches and liquor:
Complaining one time, of a sad single life,
Then giving the Devil, that log, call'd a Wife.
Gay, moping, and jarring, and chanting, and whining,
Caressing, abusing, exulting, repining;
In short, fears, joys, doubts, make this queer Salma gundi,
Death devours it, and “Gloria, sic, transit Mundi!”