John Milton

,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

,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