Dirge
FEAR no more the heat o’ the sunNor 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, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flashNor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finished joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.