Classic Poem

Rich men, trust not in wealth
Gold cannot buy you health:
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by.
I am sick, I must die—
Lord have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young, and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die—
Lord have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;
Come, come, the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die—
Lord have mercy on us!