The Golden Treasury. Various

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       Thou thy worldly task hast done,

       Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;

       Golden lads and girls all must,

       As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

      Fear no more the frown o' the great,

       Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;

       Care no more to clothe and eat;

       To thee the reed is as the oak:

       The sceptre, learning, physic, must

       All follow this, and come to dust.

      Fear no more the lightning-flash

       Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

       Fear not slander, censure rash;

       Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:

       All lovers young, all lovers must

       Consign to thee, and come to dust.

      W. Shakespeare

LXV

      A SEA DIRGE

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      Full fathom five thy father lies:

       Of his bones are coral made;

       Those are pearls that were his eyes:

       Nothing of him that doth fade,

       But doth suffer a sea-change

       Into something rich and strange.

       Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

       Hark! now I hear them,—

       Ding, dong, bell.

      W. Shakespeare

LXVI

      A LAND DIRGE

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      Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

       Since o'er shady groves they hover

       And with leaves and flowers do cover

       The friendless bodies of unburied men.

       Call unto his funeral dole

       The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole

       To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm

       And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;

       But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,

       For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

      J. Webster

LXVII

      POST MORTEM

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      If Thou survive my well-contented day

       When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

       And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

       These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;

      Compare them with the bettering of the time,

       And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

       Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme

       Exceeded by the height of happier men.

      O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought—

       'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,

       A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

       To march in ranks of better equipage:

      But since he died, and poets better prove,

       Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

      W. Shakespeare

LXVIII

      THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH

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      No longer mourn for me when I am dead

       Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

       Give warning to the world, that I am fled

       From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;

      Nay, if you read this line, remember not

       The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

       That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

       If thinking on me then should make you woe.

      O if, I say, you look upon this verse

       When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

       Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

       But let your love even with my life decay;

      Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

       And mock you with me after I am gone.

      W. Shakespeare

LXIX

      YOUNG LOVE

       Table of Contents

      Tell me where is Fancy bred,

       Or in the heart, or in the head?

       How begot, how nourishéd?

       Reply, reply.

      It is engender'd in the eyes;

       With gazing fed; and Fancy dies

       In the cradle where it lies:

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