Dirge

FEAR no more the heat o’ the sun Nor the furious winter’s 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.

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 finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.