Just as a weak and empty rush,
That in a wat'ry mead,
With hasty growth and easy push,
Rears up its haughty head:

In moisture rich, in verdure gay,
Unmov'd and not cut down:
Yet on a sudden wears away
Ere other plants are grown.

So shall the wicked's beauty fade,
The hypocrite's fair shew;
Who no foundation firm hath laid,
But mire in which he grew.

His swelling hopes, ere he's aware,
In their high tide shall ebb;
His groundless trust is weaker far
Than any spider's web.

He on his tott'ring house shall lean.
A false and fruitless prop,
Which, sinking soon, shall fail him clean,
And disappoint his hope.