He Was Not So Much

Man, Proud Man, Drest In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured.

The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up My Life; Here Must I Stay, And Here My Life Must End.

O, Grief Hath Changed Me Since You Saw Me Last, And Careful Hours With Time's Deformed Hand Have Written Strange Defeatures In My Face. But Tell Me Yet, Dost Thou Not Know My Voice?

Virtue Itself Turns Vice, Being Misapplied, And Vice Sometime By Action Dignified.

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.