Fidele
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.