让虔诚的达蒙坐在他的座位上，带着装腔作态的步伐和慵懒的微笑，从他的手帕上散发出甜蜜的沙巴恩的气味;展开他那镶满珠宝的小手，对所有教区的美人微笑，拍拍他的卷发，抚平他的手，迎接他神圣职责的序曲。让拥挤的观众紧盯着看，让窒息的少女扇着扇子，赞美他的教义和他的头发，低声说:“多么好的一个年轻人!”当他解释得很清楚的时候，清楚得让人困惑，我就在这里读我的布道;头盖骨，和骨头，将成为经文。你是被名声所迷惑吗?每当她叫出别的名字，比你的名字更强调时，你会妒火中烧吗?我向你布道;临近;参加! Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end, What Byron is, and thou must be. Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf, or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp narrow pits, Where they and thou must lie together. Dost thou beneath the smile or frown Of some vain woman bend thy knee? Here take thy stand, and trample down Things that were once as fair as she. Here rave of her ten thousand graces, Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin, While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin. Whate'er thy losses or thy gains, Whate'er thy projects or thy fears, Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains, That prompt thy baby smiles and tears; Come to my school, and thou shalt learn, In one short hour of placid thought, A stoicism, more deep, more stern, Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught. The plots and feats of those that press To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess, Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights For shows of unsubstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights, Be things of flesh, or things of wood? We check, and take; exult, and fret; Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night: Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game? Dost thou among these hillocks stray, O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan? Know that thy foot is on the clay Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxious schemes, How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother's cherished dreams, The swelling turf before thee covers! Here for the living, and the dead, The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed, The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O'er those with whom thou soon must be? Death his own sting shall cure--the grave Shall vanquish its own victory. Here learn that all the griefs and joys, Which now torment, which now beguile, Are children's hurts, and children's toys, Scarce worthy of one bitter smile. Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press, Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail, That science is a blind man's guess, And History a nurse's tale. Here learn that glory and disgrace, Wisdom and folly, pass away, That mirth hath its appointed space, That sorrow is but for a day; That all we love, and all we hate, That all we hope, and all we fear, Each mood of mind, each turn of fate, Must end in dust and silence here.