Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
   In learned doctors’ spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, 
   And lap me in delight.

By thee, they cry, with phizzes long,
   My years are sooner passed;
Well, take my answer, right or wrong,
   They’re sweeter while they last.

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art
   A monitor, though still;
Thou speak’st a lesson to my heart
   Beyond the preacher’s skill.

Thou’rt like the man of worth, who gives
   To goodness every day,
The odor of whose virtue lives
    When he has passed away.

 When, in the lonely evening hour,
    Attended but by thee,
O’er history’s varied page I pore,
   Man’s fate in thine I see.

Oft as thy snowy column grows,
   Then breaks and falls away,
I trace how mighty realms thus rose,
   Thus tumbled to decay.

Awhile like thee the hero burns,
   And smokes and fumes around,
And then, like thee, to ashes turns,
   And mingles with the ground.

 Life’s but a leaf adroitly rolled.
   And time’s the wasting breath
That late or early, we behold,
   Gives all to dusty death.

From beggar’s frieze to monarch’s robe,
   One common doom is passed;
Sweet Nature’s works, the swelling globe, 
   Must all burn out at last.

And what is he who smokes thee now?
   A little moving heap,
That soon like thee to fate must bow,
   With thee in dust must sleep.

But though thy ashes downward go,
   Thy essence rolls on high;
Thus, when my body must lie low,
   My soul shall cleave the sky.