Sir Fopling, crost in Love and stript at Play,
Pensive and grumbling on his Pillow lay;
How vain says he, are all the Things below,
Sway'd by a Woman, or a fickle Throw?
Is this the boasted Pow'r of humane Souls,
Which Fortune or a foolish Wench controuls?
No, we are Slaves; our Nature is a Cheat,
And Reason serves to shew us the Deceit;
The servile Tools of Providence we live,
Content with what the Heav'ns vouchsafe to give:
Life on such niggard Terms I scorn to keep,
Death take me hence--he spoke and dropt asleep.

When to his Fancy there appear'd a spright,
Such as old Wives, upon a Winter Night,
Describe to keep the naughty Boys in awe,
With two long spindle Shanks, a lantern Jaw;
Nor Flesh nor Skin the Phantom seem'd to have,
Ycleped Death, the Monarch of the Grave;
A Tyrant, dreaded by the old and young,
His dry Bones rattled as he stalk'd along.

Kind Heav'n, says he, has heard thy urgent Pray'r,
And takes thee from a World beneath thy Care;
Lo! thus I execute his high Command,
And shook the Hour--glass in his scraggy Hand;
Then poizing for the Blow his barbed Dart,
Aim'd it directly at the Coxcomb's--Heart.

Sir Fopling, startled at the fancied Stroke,
Shrunk from the Point, and in his Fears awoke;
A cold, damp Sweat his dewy Cheeks o'erspread,
And his Limbs trembled all with panick Dread;
Upon his Knees the gracious Pow'rs he blest,
And the Presumption of his Heart confess'd:
Quite alter'd now from what he was before,
He rakes and rattles and blasphemes no more;
Grows a meer Saint, converted in a Fright,
And says his Pray'rs devoutly ev'ry Night.