Suspicion Shall Be All Stuck Full Of

Nature's Tears Are Reason's Merriment.

We See Which Way The Stream Of Time Doth Run.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.

Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else.

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.