That Flow Of Gallants Which Approach To Kiss Thy Hand From Out The Coach; That Fleet Of Lackeys Which Do Run Before Thy Swift Postilion; Those Strong-Hoof'D Mules, Which We Behold Rein'D In With Purple, Pearl, And Gold, And Shed With Silver, Prove To Be The Drawers Of The Axle-Tree; Thy Wife, Thy Children, And The State Of Persian Looms And Antique Plate: All These, And More, Shall Then Afford No Joy To Thee, Their Sickly Lord.