Content

A deep look at a different time in a noble era

Content

The soul does span the world, and hang content
From either pole unto the center;
Where in each room of the well furnished tent
He lies warm and without adventure

The brags of life are but a nine days yonder
And after death the fumes that spring
From private bodies make as big a thunder
As those which rise from a huge king

Only the Chronicle is lost; and yet
Better by worms be all once spent
Then to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret
Thy name in books, which may not rent;

When all thy deeds, whose brunt the feeling alone
Are chawed by others pens and tongue;
And as their wit is, their digestion,
The nourished fame is weak or strong.