Classic Poem

As woods whose change appeares
Still in their leaves, throughout the sliding yeares,
The first borne dying; so the aged state
Of words decay, and phrases borne but late
Like tender buds shoot up, and freshly grow.
Our selves, and all thats ours, to death we owe:
Whether the Sea receiv'd into the shore,
That from the North, the Navie safe doth store,
A kingly worke; or that long barren fen
Once rowable, but now doth nourish men
In neighbour-townes, and feeles the weightie plough:
Or the wilde river, who had changed now
His course so hurtfull both to graine, and seedes,
Being taught a better way. All mortall deeds
Shall perish: so farre off it is, the state,
Or grace of speech, should hope a lasting date.
Much phrase that now is dead, shall be reviv'd;
And much shall dye, that now is nobly liv'd,
If Custome please; at whose disposing will
The power, and rule of speaking resteth still.