You shall not pile, with servile toil,/ Your monuments upon my breast,/ Nor yet within the common soil/ Lay down the wreck of power to rest . . .

Toil shall not afflict them in it, nor shall they be ever ejected from it.

You shall not pile, with servile toil, Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil Lay down the wreck of power to rest, Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was "the scourge of God."

Not marble, nor the gilded monumentsOf princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme.

Yet if thou warn the wicked, and he turn not from his wickedness, nor from his wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity; but thou hast delivered thy soul.

And they shall say to you, See here; or, see there: go not after them, nor follow them.