My Age I Will Not Once Lament,

O Time The Fatal Wrack Of Mortal Things, That Draws Oblivion's Curtains Over Kings; Their Sumptuous Monuments, Men Know Them Not, Their Names Without A Record Are Forgot, Their Parts, Their Ports, Their Pomps All Laid In Th' Dust Nor Wit Nor Gold, Nor Buildings Scape Time's Rust; But He Whose Name Is Graved In The White Stone Shall Last And Shine When All Of These Are Gone.

Youth Is The Time Of Getting, Middle Age Of Improving, And Old Age Of Spending.

We Must, Therefore, Be Here As Strangers And Pilgrims, That We May Plainly Declare That We Seek A City Above.

Flesh Of My Flesh, Bone Of My Bone, I Here, Though There, Yet Both But One.

But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.