Courtesy Which Oft Is Found In Lowly

To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

What Needs My Shakespeare For His Honour'd Bones,- The Labour Of An Age In Piled Stones? Or That His Hallow'd Relics Should Be Hid Under A Star-y-pointing Pyramid? Dear Son Of Memory, Great Heir Of Fame, What Need'st Thou Such Weak Witness Of Thy Name?

I Fled, And Cry'd Out, Death; Hell Trembled At The Hideous Name, And Sigh'd From All Her Caves, And Back Resounded, Death.

And Add To These Retired Leisure, That In Trim Gardens Take His Pleasure.