John Milton

,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

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

,Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race ,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours ;Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace ,And glut thy self with what thy womb devours