Dirge

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

(From Cymbaline)