Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 48

     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-stone;

     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.