 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
MAKE READY; PREPARE!
Fond Man! When Time draws near with stealthy foot—Grim Death's apparitor—and holds in hand
That summons which no judge can countermand,
No counsel counter-plead, look thou well to it,
That th' actor's part in life's last act may suit!
For tho' thine hour-glass run golden sand
As of Pactolus' self, it still must stand;
And Death will not thy wealth, but thee, compute.
O Memory, thou art full of tongues and eyes!
Let not those whisper what will nightmare sleep,
Nor these glare looks might make thy flesh to creep!
The cozening flatteries and close-hugged lies,
Which to thine ear their promise seemed to keep,
Like fiends, will mock thee then with perjuries!
| Stones from The Quarry | |