Oh Life, thou Nothing's younger brother!
So like, that one might take one for the other.
What's somebody, or nobody?
In all the cobwebs of the schoolmen's trade,
We no such nice distinction woven see,
As 'tis to be, or not to be.
Dream of a shadow! A reflection made
From the false glories of the gay reflected bow,
Is a more solid thing than thou.
Vain weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise
Up betwixt two eternities;
Yet canst nor wave nor wind sustain,
But broken and o'erwhelm'd, the endless oceans meet again.

And with what rare inventions do we strive,
Ourselves then to survive?
Wise, subtle arts, and such as well befit
That nothing man's no wit.
Some with vast costly tombs would purchase it,
And by the proofs of Death pretend to live.
Here lies the Great — False marble, where?
Nothing but small, and sordid dust lies there.
Some build enormous mountain-palaces,
The fools and architects to please:
A lasting life in well-hewn stone they rear:
So he who on th' Egyptian shore,
Was slain so many hundred years before,
Lives still (Oh life most happy and most dear!
Oh life that epicures envy to hear!)
Lives in the dropping ruins of his amphitheatre.

His father-in-law an higher place does claim
In the seraphic entity of fame.
He since that toy his death,
Does fill all mouths, and breathes in all men's breath.
'Tis true, the two immortal syllables remain,
But, oh ye learned men explain,
What essence, what existence this,
What substance, what subsistence, what hypostasis
In six poor letters is?
In those alone does the great Caesar live,
'Tis all the conquer'd world could give.
We poets madder yet than all,
With a refin'd fantastic vanity,
Think we not only have, but give eternity.
Fain would I see that prodigal,
Who his to-morrow would bestow,
For all old Homer's life e'er since he died till now.