On The Death Of Mr. John Smith, Clothier, Poem by Samuel Bowden

Novemrer 1745

Much like the fabrick of my trade,
Death has dissolv'd the human thread.
My frame I thought so firmly join'd,
Was but the Cloathing of the Mind.
The cloth we weave, the thread we spin
All imitate this frail Machine.
Devouring Death will soon consume
The strongest labours of the loom:
The closer texture of my frame,
This Webb of Nerves is just the same.
And now the Fates which spun the chain,
Have cut the Thread of Life again.