Sable-vested Night, Eldest Of Things.

So Much I Feel My Genial Spirits Droop, My Hopes All Flat, Nature Within Me Seems In Her Functions Weary Of Herself.

Till Old Experience Do Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise

Nothing Is Here For Tears, Nothing To Wail Or Knock The Breast, No Weakness, No Contempt, Dispraise, Or Blame,-nothing But Well And Fair, And What May Quiet Us In A Death So Noble.

Be Lowly Wise: Think Only What Concerns Thee And Thy Being.