 no more the heate o' th' sun,
Nor the furious Winters rages,
Thou thy wordly task hast done,
Home art gon, and tane they wages.
Golden Lads and Girles all must,
As Chimney Sweepers come to dust.
Feare no more the frowne o' th' Great,
Thou art past the Tirants stroake,
Care no more to cloath and eate,
To thee the Reede is as the Oake.
The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,
All follow this and come to dust.
Feare no more the Lightning flash,
Nor th'all-dreaded Thunderstone.
Feare not Slander, Censure rash,
Thou hast finished loy and mone.
All Lovers young, all Lovers must,
Consigne to thee and come to dust.
No Exorcisor harme thee,
Nor no witch-craft charme thee.
Ghost unlaid forbeare thee,
Nothing ill come neare thee.
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave.
By William Shakespeare
Cymbeline. Act IV, Scene II
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