Bid Me Run, And I Will Strive

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.

Thy Best Of Rest Is Sleep, And That Thou Oft Provok'st; Yet Grossly Fear'st Thy Death, Which Is No More.

As He Was Valiant, I Honour Him. But As He Was Ambitious, I Slew Him.

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; 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.

This Thought Is As A Death.