  If, as you say, like dogs we die, Why, then, like angels live? Let faithless Reason make reply, And honest answer give. What power shall check the downward trend Of wilful hearts of men, If in eternal nothing end Their three score years and ten? That Virtue is its own reward— Think you sufficient cause To move men to the due regard Of Heaven’s holiest laws? While blood is blood, and gold is gold, Alas, you vainly try, With fine-spun calculations cold, To lure us to the sky. The beast in every breast, Then tooth and claw shall be our law;— Why need to paint the rest? Grant us for our protection here, This boon, Philosophy, If not the hope, the wholesome fear, Of immortality. And, meanwhile, in our memory keep That earnest word of old:— Whate’er thou sowest thou shalt reap, In measure manifold.
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