With all thy gold, thou canst not make
          Time sell his sand;
With all thy cloth, a thin white shroud
          Is Death's command;
Death gives thee but a poor man's space,
          With all thy land.
The beggar in his grave and thou
          Must be the same;
For neither thou nor he shall hear
          Men's praise or blame;
Though thunder and a thousand rocks
          Should call thy name.