John Milton

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed 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 …