That flow of gallants which approach <br />To kiss thy hand from out the coach; <br />That fleet of lackeys which do run <br />Before thy swift postilion; <br />Those strong-hoof'd mules, which we behold <br />Rein'd in with purple, pearl, and gold, <br />And shed with silver, prove to be <br />The drawers of the axle-tree; <br />Thy wife, thy children, and the state <br />Of Persian looms and antique plate: <br />--All these, and more, shall then afford <br />No joy to thee, their sickly lord.<br /><br />Robert Herrick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/men-mind-no-state-in-sickness/
