An Epigram. To Mr. H. Northcote of Exeter-Colledge, Oxon

WHy should we to this World our Souls enslave,
That never yet true satisfaction gave,
That has no happiness but in the Grave?
She throws us Pleasures only to bereave,
To decay Subject, Subject to deceive,
They us, We them must once for ever leave.
Our Title's good no longer than our Life,
Our Friends inherit little else but Strife.
In death the Miser's only happy found,
Who goes t' enjoy his Treasure under ground.