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1 No, I shall envy them no more
Who grow profanely Great,
Tho' they increase their golden Store,
And rise to wond'rous Height.
2 They taste of all the Joys that grow
Upon this earthly Clod!
Well, they may search the Creature thro',
For they have ne'er a God.
3 Shake off the Thoughts of dying too,
And think your Life your own;
But Death comes hast'ning on to you,
To mow your Glory down.
4 Yes, you must bow your stately Head,
Away your Spirit flies,
And no kind Angel near your Bed,
To bear it to the Skies.
5 Go now, and boast of all your Stores,
And tell how bright you shine;
Your Heaps of glitt'ring Dust are yours,
And my Redeemer's mine.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | No, I shall envy them no more |
Title: | The Misery of being without God in this world; Or, Vain Prosperity |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1791 |