This man his planted walks extendsBeyond his peers; an older nameOne to the people's choice commends;One boasts a more unsullied fame;One plumes him on a larger crowdOf clients. What are great or small?Death takes the mean man with the proud;The fatal urn has room for all.When guilty Pomp the drawn sword seesHung o'er her, richest feasts in vainStrain their sweet juice her taste to please;No lutes, no singing birds againWill bring her sleep. Sleep knows no pride;It scorns not cots of village hinds,Nor shadow-trembling river-side,Nor Tempe, stirr'd by western winds.Who, having competence, has all,The tumult of the sea defies,Nor fears Arcturus' angry fall,Nor fears the Kid-star's sullen rise,