Some Laborers Have Hard Hands, And Old

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.

When I Behold The Heavens As In Their Prime, And Then The Earth (though Old) Still Clad In Green, The Stones And Trees, Insensible Of Time, Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen

Some Laborers Have Hard Hands, And Old Sinners Have Brawny Consciences.

The World No Longer Lets Me Love, My Hope And Treasure Are Above.

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