My Age I Will Not Once Lament,

O Time The Fatal Wrack Of Mortal Things, That Draws Oblivion's Curtains Over Kings; Their Sumptuous Monuments, Men Know Them Not, Their Names Without A Record Are Forgot, Their Parts, Their Ports, Their Pomps All Laid In Th' Dust Nor Wit Nor Gold, Nor Buildings Scape Time's Rust; But He Whose Name Is Graved In The White Stone Shall Last And Shine When All Of These Are Gone.

Some Laborers Have Hard Hands, And Old Sinners Have Brawny Consciences.

My Love Is Such That Rivers Cannot Quench, Nor Ought But Love From Thee, Give Recompence. Thy Love Is Such I Can No Way Repay, The Heavens Reward Thee Manifold I Pray.

We Must, Therefore, Be Here As Strangers And Pilgrims, That We May Plainly Declare That We Seek A City Above.

Sin And Shame Ever Go Together; He That Would Be Freed From The Last Must Be Sure To Shun The Company Of The First.