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228 Milinda

In vain the wealthy mortals toil, 
And heap their shining dust in vain,
Look down and scorn the humble poor, 
And boast their lofty hills of gain. 
Their golden cordials cannot ease 
Their pained hearts or aching heads, 
Nor fright nor bribe approaching death 
From glitt'ring roofs and downy beds.

The ling'ring, the unwilling soul 
The dismal summons must obey, 
And bid a long, a sad farewell 
To the pale lump of lifeless clay.
Thence they are huddled to the grave,
Where kings and slaves have equal thrones; 
Their bones without distinction lie 
Amongst the heap of meaner bones.

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