  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-tone 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. |
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