What greater good had deck'd great Pompey's crown
Than death, if in his honours fully blown,
And mature glories he had died? those piles
Of huge success, loud fame, and lofty styles
Built in his active youth, long lazy life
Saw quite demolish'd by ambitious strife.
He lived to wear the weak and melting snow
Of luckless age, where garlands seldom grow,
But by repining Fate torn from the head
Which wore them once, are on another shed.