"His Grace! impossible! what, dead! <br />Of old age too, and in his bed! <br />And could that mighty warrior fall, <br />And so inglorious, after all? <br />Well, since he's gone, no matter how, <br />The last loud trump must wake him now; <br />And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger, <br />He'd wish to sleep a little longer. <br />And could he be indeed so old <br />As by the newspapers we're told? <br />Threescore, I think, is pretty high; <br />'Twas time in conscience he should die! <br />This world he cumber'd long enough; <br />He burnt his candle to the snuff; <br />And that's the reason, some folks think, <br />He left behind so great a stink. <br />Behold his funeral appears, <br />Nor widows' sighs, nor orphans' tears, <br />Wont at such times each heart to pierce, <br />Attend the progress of his hearse. <br />But what of that? his friends may say, <br />He had those honours in his day. <br />True to his profit and his pride, <br />He made them weep before he died <br /> <br />Come hither, all ye empty things! <br />Ye bubbles rais'd by breath of kings! <br />Who float upon the tide of state; <br />Come hither, and behold your fate! <br />Let pride be taught by this rebuke, <br />How very mean a thing's a duke; <br />From all his ill-got honours flung, <br />Turn'd to that dirt from whence he sprung"<br /><br />Jonathan Swift<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-satirical-elegy-on-the-death-of-a-late-famous/
